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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 










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POEMS 



SACRED AND SECULAR 



BY THE 



REV. WILLIAM CBOSWELL, D. D. 



EDITED, WITH A MEMOIR 



BY 



A. CLEVELAND COXE 



Tu tamen amisso nonnunquam flebis amico : 
Fas est praeteritos semper amare viros. 

Peopert. 



BOSTON: 
TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 

M DCCC LXI. 



76 14-7 3 
.0^ 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by 

TICKNOR AND FIELDS, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of 
Massachusetts. 



University Press, Cambridge : 
Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 




■§£fls*n5£ft£& 



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0® 



©gs v 




TO 



GEORGE CHEYXE SHATTUCK, M. D., 

&c, &c, &c. 

£j)fs Volume is fuscrtfceTr, 

AS A RECORD 

OF THAT FAITHFUL FRIENDSHIP 

WHICH SO GREATLY CONTRIBUTED TO THE HAPPINESS AND USEFUL- 
NESS OF THE LATER YEARS OF 

CROSWELL, 

AND AS A TOKEN 
OF THE EDITOR'S PERSONAL REGARD. 






: rrxTririrHiriri^^ 



PREFACE 



The Editor of these poems is indebted for the 
entire collection to the labours and industry of the 
poet's father, the Rev. Dr. Croswell, late of New 
Haven. On inquiry, in every quarter which could 
naturally be looked to, he has been unable to find 
a single additional verse which he could, with con- 
fidence, add to this volume as an original work of 
its author. 

The paternal memoir, too, has supplied the basis 
for the short biography herewith presented ; but it 
is not the less, on that account, an original sketch 
of the poet's life and character, made up from 
personal acquaintance, and from the testimony of 
common friends. 

The task of rearranging, revising, and, in short, 



vi PREFACE. 

of editing the poems, has nevertheless been one 
of more care, anxiety, and labour than might seem 
probable. The responsibility of the editor to the 
public, and to a departed friend, has often been 
deeply felt, especially when the claims of the one 
party have seemed to clash with those of the other. 
The editor has no doubt that the quality of the 
volume has been lowered by the retaining of 
poems which their author would never have per- 
mitted to reappear, in a permanent form ; and 
yet the public might justly censure a mere editor 
for presuming to omit any known production of 
one whose every line is dear to somebody. He 
has, therefore, done his best, with a conscientious 
regard to the question of duty, always endeavouring 
to keep before his eye the probable wishes of his 
friend, so far as he can be conceived of as a party 
to the republication of poems in which the affec- 
tion of others has overruled his morbid desire to 
suppress them. 

The chronological order of the poems preserved 
in the memoir by the poet's father has been entire- 
ly changed, as unsuitable to the design of this 



PREFACE. vii 

volume. In their present form, the poems are to 
be introduced to entire strangers, if not to another 
generation ; and, as with them the impression to 
be made must be the product of essential merit 
only, it has seemed all-important to give them 
every advantage of arrangement, and to strip 
them of such purely local and momentary associa- 
tions, as give to a volume of poetry a poor and 
provincial aspect. All secondary and accidental 
matter has been banished from the text, but will be 
found in the Notes ; so that the poetry will speak 
for itself to those who wish to see the poetry, while 
personal friends will find the facts which may in- 
terest them still kept in the record. 

The Sonnets are, in the opinion of the editor, 
the finest of Dr. Croswell's poems, and the most 
significant of those real powers which he suppressed 
and sacrificed to a life of practical duty. They 
are also capable of being so placed together as 
to resemble, in some degree, a continuous work. 
Reserving such as are of local and personal in- 
terest, therefore, for the last, and bringing first 
into notice those which are their own interpreters, 



viii PREFACE. 

and most likely to awaken universal sympathy, 
the Sonnets are here presented as the author's 
choice productions, and in the form of one com- 
plete work. The sonnet reserved for the closing 
one gives a finish to the series, and seems, to 
the editor, a beautiful, though unconscious por- 
traiture of the poet himself, in his untimely (but 
not, for himself, premature) demise. It is sufficient 
to add, that, in the arrangement and collocation of 
the other poems, similar views of propriety have 
prevailed over other considerations ; and each 
poem stands just where it does, as the result of 
much reflection as to its fitting place, — or, in other 
words, as to the best setting for the display of its 
special lustre as a gem. 

A. C. C. 

Baltimore, Nov. 9, 1860. 




§W°^^^^W-^^Ml 




CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Memoir xv 

SONNETS. 

Winter 3 

Christmas 4 

Saint John the Evangelist 5 

The Seven Churches 6 

Epiphany 7 

The Far' West 8 

Crete 9 

Lent 10 

Christ Bearing the Cross 11 

To the Hepatica Triloba, found in March 12 

Easter 13 

Infant Baptism 14 

Confirmation 15 

The Knot 16 

Communion of the Sick 17 

The Knell 18 

Saint James the Apostle 19 

Saint Bartholomew . 20 



x CONTENTS. 

Saint Matthew 21 

Michaelmas 22 

Saint Lnke 23 

Foxe's Book of Martyrs 24 

Valedictory 25 

Palinode 26 

A Prayer, on beginning a Periodical named " The 

Watchman" 27 

Trinity College, Hartford 28 

On the Death of a Pastor 29 

Bnrial of Ashmun 30 

Memorial of a Coloured Clergyman ordained for a 

Mission to Africa 31 

To a Friend, on his Consecration to the Episcopate . 32 

The Catechist 33 

In an Album 34 

To a Winged Figure by Eaphael 35 

Meditation on the Death of a Clergyman 36 

POEMS. 

Clouds 39 

Drink, and Away ! 41 

Wheelock Cottage, Medfield 43 

The Eobin's Nest, destroyed by a Cat 45 

Nature and Kevelation 46 

A Night Thought 47 

Greece 48 

The Brook Kedron 49 

The Synagogue 51 

Midnight Thought 54 

De Profundis 55 

Palestine 56 

Africa 59 



CONTENTS. 



XI 



South- Sea Missionaries 61 

The Feast of Tabernacles 63 

The Meeting of the Tribes 64 

The Missionary's Farewell . . . „ 66 

Stanzas 68 

The Ordinal 69 

Recollections of St. Paul's Day 72 

Christ Church, Boston 74 

Christ Church 77 

A Christmas Evening Pastoral 79 

St. John Baptist's Day 83 

From the Antique 86 

To my Father 88 

To ray Mother 90 

Epithalamium 92 

A Daughter's Portion 94 

To .97 

To my Sister 98 

Loneliness 99 

To a Friend who sent me a Watch-case and a Ther- 
mometer 100 

The Name of Mary 101 

To * * * * 102 

Stanzas, on the Death of an aged Servant of God . . 104 

In Memory of D. W 106 

To my Namesake, on his Baptism 108 

To a Friend, embarking in a Ship named " The 

Heber" 110 

To my Godson, William Croswell Doane Ill 

Lament 113 

To the Rev. Thomas Winthrop Coit, D. D 115 

Elegiac 117 

Bishop White 119 



xii CONTENTS. 

Bishop Griswold's Memorial 121 

Lines written in the Chamber where Bishop Hobart 

died, on the tenth Anniversary 124 

Memorial of my beloved Friend and Predecessor, 

the Eev. William Lucas 127 

Ad Amicum 128 

Stanzas written in a copy of Milton's Poems . . . 131 

Fragment 183 

To a Child, on her Birthday, in September .... 135 

To Sophia 187 

To a Lady, with a Sprig of Myrtle 138 

For a Child's Album 139 

Fragment 140 

Home 141 

Absence 142 

The Two Graves 143 

New-Year Thoughts 148 

A New Year's Address 152 

Valentines 157 

The Chapel Bell, Yale College 161 

An Apology 165 

Architectural 166 

Nahant 169 

Old North Cock 170 

New Haven 172 

Prison Hymn, by Mary, Queen of Scots .... 175 

Lake Owasco 176 

Albany 178 

Fragments 183 

Convocation Poem 186 

Psalm I 202 

Psalm CXXXIII 204 

Psalm CXXXIV 205 



CONTENTS. xiii 

Psalm CXXXVn 206 

Psalm CL 208 

Advent 209 

Hymn for Advent 211 

Christmas 213 

Vigil of the Circumcision 214 

The Epiphany 215 

First Sunday after Epiphany 216 

Second Sunday after Epiphany 217 

Quinquagesima Sunday 218 

Lent 219 

Hymn for the First Sunday after Easter 221 

Hymn for Whitsunday 223 

Reveille 225 

Saint Thomas 226 

Saint Paul 227 

Saint Stephen 229 

Hymn for Saint Matthew's Day 230 

Saint Andrew's Day '.232 

Sunday-School Hymn 234 

The Upper Eoom, in which a Sunday-School was 

kept 235 

Flowers 236 

Hymn, for the Chapel of a Lunatic Hospital . . . 238 

Baptismal Hymn 240 

Charity Hymn 241 

Ode, for Christmas Eve 243 

Ode, for the Re-opening of Christ Church, Boston . 245 

Song of Faith 247 

Paraphrase, " By their Fruits ye shall know them " 249 

The Missionary 251 

Sunday-School Hymn 252 

A Prayer 254 



XIV 



CONTENTS. 



Traveller's Hymn 255 

Hymn for Sisters of Mercy 256 

Hymns of the Ancient Time 257 

Notes 265 





MEMOIR. 



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MEMOIR 



Good men are not so many among mankind that 
we can afford to lose the memory of any one who 
has been eminently pure and lovely. Such men, 
when they die, bequeath an example to their coun- 
try and to after times which is more precious than 
rubies. A saint of God leaves to the Church, when 
he departs, the lustre of his character. A man of 
genius who has been as truly humble as he was 
great, should begin to be known and honoured at 
least when he is gone where popular praise can no 
longer offend him. For his reputation is no longer 
his own ; it is the heritage of his native land, of the 
schools that reared him, of the friends that loved 
him, of the world itself that ought to revere him, and 
of unborn generations that should be taught to imi- 
tate him. Such are the reasons which induce me 
to write a Memoir of an admired and beloved friend, 
now with God. I owe him a debt of gratitude ; I 



xviii MEMOIR. 

rejoice to testify to the widow and the fatherless how 
sincerely I venerated him whose name they bear ; 
but a sense of duty to the times and to the Church, 
is my chief motive in calling fresh attention to the 
name and character of one who is worthy to be 
had in perpetual remembrance. 

William Cro swell was born on the seventh 
of November, 1804, at Hudson, in the County 
of Columbia and State of New York. This town 
shares the name of the old navigator with the river 
on which it is built, and the eyes of the young poet 
first opened amid scenes of natural beauty which 
are not surpassed in America. There the Kaats- 
kills rear their summits in the degree of distance 
most favorable for the effects of light and shade, 
and " Cloudland," which he lived to sing so thrill- 
ingly, reveals itself nowhere more gloriously of a 
summer evening than in the immediate neighbour- 
hood of his birthplace. The year of his birth was 
a memorable one among the kingdoms of the world, 
but that is of little moment in the history of one 
whose life was hid with Christ in God. 

He was the son of Harry Croswell, Esq., who, not 
long after his birth, conformed to the Church, took 
holy orders, and subsequently became an eminent di- 
vine in the Diocese of Connecticut, where he lived in 
honour and usefulness to a venerable age, surviving 
his son, and becoming his biographer. The mother 



MEMOIR. 



xix 



of our poet was a lady of respectable family in New 
Haven, whose maiden-name was Sherman. He was 
the third of seven children, and was not baptized 
till he was nine years old, when, with his mother, 
and the other children then living, he received that 
sacrament on the 13th of June, 1813. His father 
was ordained in the month of May of the following 
year, and on New- Year's Day, 1815, entered upon 
the Rectorship of Trinity Church, New Haven, 
where he remained till his death, in 1858. That 
beautiful little Puritan Capital, which its inhabitants 
love to call " the City of Elms," and which has 
since been distinguished for the rapid growth in it 
of the Church, was the scene of William's boyhood. 
As New Haven was the seat of Yale College, then 
the most prominent of our American schools, he 
was surrounded with influences favourable to the 
development of those literary tastes which he pos- 
sessed even in childhood ; and the paternal in- 
fluence, if not his own elevated instincts, were his 
sufficient safeguard against what was unfavourable 
in the atmosphere of a narrow sectarianism. The 
Church in New Haven, under his father's ministry, 
soon began to attract to its pale many of the best 
and most refined of the Puritan families, and the 
vigorous growth of church principles was rather 
stimulated than depressed by the daily encounter 
of unreasonable prejudices. It is pleasant to know, 



xx MEMOIR. 

however, that his father's churchmanship, like his 
own, was so amiably maintained that the kindliest 
feelings always existed between the churchmen of 
New Haven and their neighbours. 

In outline, the story of such a life as Croswell's 
may be told very briefly. Under the careful tutor- 
ship of Mr. Joel Jones, who subsequently rose to 
the presidency of Girard College, he was prepared 
for Yale College, which he entered in 1818 ; an 
important year in the history of the American 
Church, if, as the Bishop of Maine has said, it was 
the first year of marked revival, after the Revolu- 
tion had paralyzed it. In his college course there 
seems to have been nothing specially indicative of 
his superiority, for a constitutional diffidence with- 
held him at all times from self-assertion, and at 
times, perhaps, from effort. He was an industrious 
student and a great reader, especially of tho good 
old authors of our own language. His choice of the 
sacred calling was not made during his college life, 
his conscientious feelings of unworthiness maintain- 
ing a contest with his natural tastes and inclina- 
tions, and for a time overmastering them. .He took 
his Bachelor's degree in 1822, and in 1824 we find 
him still undecided as to a profession, but finally 
declining the proposal of an uncle who desired to 
initiate him into the study of medicine, influenced, 
in part, by the horrible impressions he had received 



MEMOIR. xxi 

at an anatomical lecture illustrated by dissections. 
" An extreme nervous sensibility and delicacy of 
feeling," says his father, " were his abiding char- 
acteristics through life ; " a remark which must be 
borne in mind at every stage of his career, by those 
who would fully comprehend what he did, and what 
he omitted to do. It will explain, for example, his 
rigid suppression of his juvenile poems, and the fact 
that after writing and publicly pronouncing, with 
great applause, at New Haven, at the request of the 
civic authorities, a poem of several hundred lines in 
honour of the national anniversary, he not only re- 
fused to let it be published, but destroyed it, with that 
generous sort of shame which true genius is sure to 
feel when it receives extravagant commendation. 

In 1825 he seems to have made an experiment 
with law-studies, and it is not till the next year 
that we find him, having attained his majority, re- 
solved on an earnest Christian life, and on the high 
calling of a minister of Christ. In the autumn of 
1826, he entered the Seminary in Chelsea, which 
at that time was far removed from the streets of 
New York, and stood on the very brink of the 
Hudson. The Gothic architecture, though in a 
very imperfect form, was then only just introduced 
among us, and the Seminary building seems to 
have impressed very favourably the young Ecclesi- 
astic, by its partial likeness to the academic abodes 



xxii MEMOIR. 

of the mother country. A deeper impression, how- 
ever, was produced in his mind and character, by 
the charge to the clergy of his diocese which Bishop 
Hobart delivered just at that time, and which 
young Croswell was so fortunate as to hear. That 
justly celebrated prelate had just returned from a 
fruitful visitation of the churches and missionary 
regions of New York, and his abundant labours, 
with the energy, fervour, and zeal of which his 
charge was an embodiment, could not but write 
themselves in the heart of a pious and enthusiastic 
candidate for Holy Orders. 

To the great regret of the sons of Chelsea, Mr. 
Croswell did not remain long enough in the Semi- 
nary to become their fellow-graduate. His health 
began to suffer ; and after a short time he removed 
to Hartford, where he pursued his theological 
studies in the College, and formed that intimate 
acquaintance with Professor Doane which was des- 
tined to leave its mark on the Church, as well as 
uoon himself and his friends. The undertaking of 
" The Watchman," in 1827, by these faithful allies 
was a considerable event in the history of the 
Church, and deserves more than casual mention. 

It must be remembered that the Anglican Church 
in America had been cut down to its very roots by 
the Revolution, and that few signs of vigorous up- 
growth began to appear before this period. Many 



MEMOIR. 



XXlll 



things now began to encourage those who had long 
laboured, apparently in vain, to convince their coun- 
trymen of the inestimable value of a historical form 
of the Gospel, and of a connection through it with 
the venerable past, with the great body of the 
Christian family in all ages, and with Christ him- 
self, personally, as its author. Bishop Hobart, as the 
doctrinal champion of the Church, had succeeded 
in awakening the minds of men to the vast stores of 
sanctified erudition which had been expended by 
the divines of England upon the reformation and 
defence of the Christian religion, and to the contrast 
afforded by the system of Apostolic orthodoxy, and 
ritual completeness, when compared with a narrow 
and discordant Puritanism. The missionary zeal 
of Bishop Chase was already refuting the inveter- 
ate prejudices which had associated the daughter 
church with the English government, and con- 
demned it, as an exotic, to a short and feeble exist- 
ence. It was time that she should begin to drop 
the swaddling-clothes of her colonial nursing, and 
put on the beautiful garments which rightfully be- 
long to her. The writings of Cooper and Irving 
had done something to obliterate ill-feeling, and 
to prepare a new generation to appreciate the 
exceeding beauty of her liturgy and the simple 
dignity of her ceremonial. The rise in England of 
a new literature, reproducing the old and super- 



xxiv MEMOIR. 

scding the popular latitudinarianism of the Hano- 
verian epoch, was marked by the appearance of 
such publications as the " Christian Year," and the 
"Rectory of Valehead." A similar work was to 
be done here ; and by the refined and deeply relig- 
ious character they were able to impart to the 
" Watchman," the young friends Doane and Cros- 
well become the lucida sidera of a brightening day- 
dawn in the American Church. However uncon- 
sciously, there can be no doubt that the whole 
country received, originally from their editorial la- 
bours, more just and enlightened impressions of that 
great system of religious truth which a feeble pro- 
vincialism had affected to treat as if it were not 
identified with the language and the history of our 
race, and as if it could be less than illustrious in the 
memory of its long line of worthies in every rank 
of the laity, and of its great divines and noble 
martyrs. 

In the College at Hartford, Mr. Croswell found 
himself associated with a number of accomplished 
gentlemen. Its President was the Bishop of Connec- 
ticut, a prelate whose amiable character, adorned 
by liberal culture, refined tastes, and great prac- 
tical wisdom, is still conspicuous in the high po- 
sition, to which his seniority entitles him, of the 
Presidency of the House of Bishops. Of Mr. 
Doane, who afterwards became the Bishop of New 



MEMOIR. xxv 

Jersey, mention has been already made. Dr. Hum- 
phreys, who subsequently presided for many years 
over St. John's College at Annapolis, was also one of 
the Professors ; and so was Dr. Potter, now Provis- 
ional Bishop of Xew York. But pre-eminent among 
these distinguished scholars was Dr. Jarvis, the 
learned chronologist and sound divine, whose per- 
sonal dignity and great erudition, combined with 
the tastes and acquirements imparted by a long 
residence in foreign countries, gave him, before his 
death, the reputation of the most accomplished 
scholar of America. Another ornament of the 
College was Dr. Wheaton, then Rector of Christ 
Church, and himself the architect of that noble fab- 
ric, which, though now far in the rear of progress 
in Gothic art, was at the time of its building even 
farther in advance of everything of the kind in 
America. Even in England, the Gothic churches 
of the same date were not greatly superior. To 
these names of gifted persons, whose society could 
not but exercise a great influence on the youthful 
genius of Croswell, might be added those of sev- 
eral eminent laymen, and of a number of ladies of 
cultivated minds, who contributed largely to the 
attractions of Hartford. He derived not a little of 
pleasure and profit from their frequent reunions at 
the house of Dr. Sumner, a well-read physician, 
and a man of science, to whose tastes and efforts, 



xxvi MEMOIR. 

with those of the President, the College owed a fine 
botanical garden, and that liberal adornment of the 
grounds with trees and shrubs which has gradually 
diffused itself through the town, and made Hartford, 
with its beautiful park, one of the most pleasant 
cities in the land. For Trinity College he ever 
retained, therefore, the affection of a son ; and in 
after years, as I have walked with him in those aca- 
demic shades, he took pleasure in imparting to me 
the traditions of the spot, and all his delightful 
recollections of the past. Once he pointed to a 
certain window, and said, " That was Doane's 
room ! There we used to talk over our books, old 
and new, and study, and write rhymes " He men- 
tioned the names of several who had since been the 
authors of graceful verse. " What a Parnassus 
you made of it ! " said I. " Nay, rather," he an- 
swered, " as Dr. Johnson said of Pembroke College, 
we were a nest of singing-birds" 

The friendship which he thus formed with Mr. 
Doane was a romantic one, and it was destined to 
be perpetuated, with no considerable abatement, 
till his death. Under the genial excitement of its 
earliest enjoyments, the genius of Croswell reached 
its flowering season. Relieving his beloved asso- 
ciate of the greater part of the editorial burdens, he 
not only did the drudgery of " The Watchman," 
but continued to adorn it with a series of charming 



MEMOIR, 



xxvii 



sonnets, hymns, and other poems. Of these per- 
haps the sweetest are his verses on " The Ordinal," 
describing minutely his own ordination as a deacon, 
in his father's church at New Haven, and the feel- 
ings inspired by the solemnity. This was in 1828, 
and soon after Mr. Doane become Rector of Trin- 
ity Church in Boston. With the second volume of 
" The Watchman " closed Mr. CroswelTs editorial 
career, and also his life in Hartford. On the Feast 
of St. John the Baptist, 1829, he was ordained 
to the priesthood by the Bishop of Massachusetts, 
(Dr. Griswold,) and entered on the rectorship of 
Christ Church, in Boston. To a man of his tastes 
and sensibilities, there could not have been com- 
mitted a more attractive charge. It was neither a 
"fashionable church," nor a post for popular display; 
still less was it a fat incumbency. He found in it a 
cure of souls, and that was all he desired : but he 
was the man of all others to find in the antiquity 
and other peculiarities of the church a charm 
which endeared to him, to the end of his days, its 
very stones and timbers. It was an old colonial 
fabric, and one of the very few in America which 
boasted a chime of bells. Its altar-service of silver 
was the gift of King George the Second in 1733, 
and the bells were added only ten years later, by 
friends of the Colonial Church in England. From 
its tower, the battle of Bunker's Hill had been 



xxviii MEMOIR. 

watched by the chief men of the Province. Sub- 
sequently, Washington had worshipped beneath its 
roof; and one of the earliest marble busts of the 
first President adorned its walls. In its vaults re- 
posed the dead ; and many authentic stories of the 
young rector's predecessors were full of interest for 
him. But these were the mere accidents of his 
position. No one that knew him ever doubted that 
he found his deepest satisfaction in feeding Christ's 
sheep ; in going in and out among them, with a 
holy love for their souls, that governed all his 
actions ; and in the continual prayers which he 
offered, publicly and privately, for the salvation 
of all mankind. 

The term of two-and-twenty years which he 
passed in the duties of his sacred office was wholly 
given to Boston, if we except the brief episode of 
his residence at Auburn. His junior ministry 
at Christ Church was concluded soon after his 
marriage with Miss Tarbell, in 1840 ; and in 1844 
he undertook that work of his maturer mind and 
heart, the founding of the Church of the Advent. 
In the service of this church, and ministering at its 
altar, he died in 1851. It is not the purpose of this 
Memoir to dwell on the events of his official life ; 
and the few words which can be devoted to it may 
as well be briefly added here. 

As a pastor, few have ever been more exemplary 



MEMOIR. xxix 

and devoted than Dr. Croswell. He delighted to 
find out Christ in His poor ; and yet he was always 
beloved and admired by many among the most re- 
fined and affluent. As a preacher he was chaste 
and fervent in his style, felicitous in his illustrations 
and expositions of Holy Scripture, and clear and 
evangelical in his statements of doctrine. If he had 
not the gifts of the popular orator, and if his ex- 
cessive modesty often led him to conceal rather 
than to display his feelings, he was yet (in the 
judgment of a genuine critic, from whom I have re- 
ceived it) a most instructive and attractive minister 
of the Word of God. In the ritual of the Church 
he was careful, but by no means finical or fanciful ; 
and though bis delight in music and art were 
indulged where he thought it edifying, he ever 
prescribed to himself, as the limit of what he prac- 
tised and approved, the law of the Church and the 
custom of the Church of England, in her parochial, 
Collegiate, and Cathedral Churches. It is to be re- 
gretted that the rash judgment of some, who knew 
him only slightly, subjected him to great suffering 
and persecution in his latter years, on frivolous 
grounds. It would be unjust to attribute his trials, 
however, to any considerable opposition from those 
of his brethren who are generally styled " Evan- 
gelical." Of these, he ever numbered some as his 
faithful friends, who loved him for his ardent piety, 



xxx MEMOIR. 

and " esteemed him very highly for his work's sake." 
Among the extreme and partisan class of this school 
only had he any enemies : and them he habitually 
forgave, as honestly mistaken, regarding them as 
rather offended with what they imagined him to 
be, than with what he was. 

With all his gentleness and love of children, and 
condescension to the poor, and humble devotion to 
the sick and dying, there was often a dignity in his 
manner which was heroic. I have seen him as 
playful as a pet lamb ; and I have seen him as bold 
as a lion. And such consideration for others ; such 
charity ; such a power of entering into other men's 
feelings, excusing their faults, and displaying their 
better parts, I never knew except in him. Ambition 
and rivalry he seemed not to understand. He was 
simply devoted to his work and his place; and 
therein he was full of love to God, and to his fel- 
low-men. If he was not a saint, and is not now 
rejoicing in the Paradise of God, I fear few will be 
saved. 

His poems are a transcript of his heart. And in 
what, that is good and pure and holy, do they not 
show him to have been deeply interested? He 
was constitutionally averse to every form of pseudo- 
philanthropy, and yet, as his poetry shows, no 
humble labourer, no poor coloured man, no sufferer 
or sorrower, was too lowly for him to regard with 



MEMOIR. xxxi 

love for Jesus's sake. The very stairs up which 
the children of his Sunday school had to climb 
became as Jacob's ladder to his eyes. He saw 
glory in everything which has Christ in it. Hence 
that ardent delight in everything connected with 
the work of Missions which is conspicuous in so 
many of his poems. The gathering in of nations 
to the fold of Jesus is the perpetually recurrent 
burden of his song. 

As he prayed in one of his poems for a death 
like that of Stephen, it was granted to him, and he 
" fell asleep," like the first martyr, while he minis- 
tered and prayed. On Sunday, the 9th of Novem- 
ber, 1851, he baptized an infant at the evening 
service, and preached to the children, on the " little 
maid," whose fidelity led to the cure and conversion 
of Naaman. After this he joined in singing the 
hymn, and then kneeling down at the rails of the 
chancel and looking towards the altar, he offered 
the prayer ; but the prayer-book dropped from his 
hands, and he could not rise to give the benediction. 
A bloodvessel had broken in his brain. In the 
white raiment of his priesthood the dying man of 
God was borne to his vestry, and thence to his 
home, where soon after (the commendatory prayer 
having been offered by his aged friend, Dr. Eaton) 
he resigned his soul to his dear Lord. 

When I received the intelligence of this sudden 



xxxii MEMOIR. 

but sublime departure, I wept as though it had been 
for an own brother. It was in Paris. I opened a 
letter, and a cutting from a newspaper dropped out. 
I read it, and for the moment, it clouded the pros- 
pect of my return to my native land. A friend 
who observed my emotion could hardly be persuad- 
ed that I had not been afflicted in my own family. 
I knew him far less intimately than many of his 
friends, for I was by many years his junior ; but on 
no heart had he written more deeply than on mine 
the record of his pure, unselfish, loving exemplifi- 
cation of what it is to be a Christian.* 

To recur to his poetical career, we must go back 
to Hartford, while as yet the dew of his youth was 
upon him, and he had not vowed to turn all his 
thoughts and studies in another wav. It was often 
in the midst of the company (I might say club) at 
Dr. Sumner's, and with a most unpoetical slate in 
his hand, that he threw off his verses, as it were 
impromptu, under the inspiration of converse with 
his friends, and of the subjects on which they were 
taking; sweet counsel together. 

# So much I must be permitted to say of our friend- 
ship : I have felt the difficulty of making farther mention 
of it,— 

'' As shrinking still, lest in his praise I should myself commend, 
So high in merit he, and I so very dear a friend." 

Such are his own lines on the death of Winslow. 



MEMOIR. xxxiii 

In general society he was a very different charac- 
ter. The poetical temperament is naturally shy 
and reserved ; for it is always viewing things in 
lights invisible to ignoble minds, and it learns 
from early childhood that it can expect no sym- 
pathy from the multitude, in feelings and impres- 
sions which are instinctive with it. That vulgar 
assurance with which men of inferior grades of 
talent often throw themselves into life and society, 
and exhibit all that they have and are, without 
restraint, is taking with the masses : they make 
way before it, and give to such men the key of 
mastery and success. A man of Croswell's tem- 
perament must have an extraordinary force of 
character to achieve success at all ; and when such 
a man comes forward and attempts something bold 
and self-asserting, it is with a sort of self-sacrifice, 
of which the common mind has no idea. The 
young poet was often accused of reserve ; and, of 
course, this was imputed to pride, and to other 
motives, of which he was equally unconscious and 
incapable, and his feelings on one occasion found 
vent in a few apologetic lines, which he tacked on 
to the well-known sonnet of Sidney : — 

" Because I oft, in dark, abstracted guise, 

Seem most alone in greatest company," etc. 

His own lines are as follows : — 

c ' 



xxxiv MEMOIR. 

1 But one worse weakness I must needs confess, — 
That deep embarrassment which doth, alas ! 
Both mental powers and bodily oppress: 
Hence rises my reserve, and not from willingness." 

He adds, in a playful note : " For the first ten lines 
of this exculpatory sonnet, I am indebted to that 
paragon of euphuists, worthy of all titles, both of 
learning and chivalry, Sir Philip Sidney ; for the 
remainder he is not responsible, nor for any viola- 
tion of the first canon of Horace, de arte poetica, 
which may be involved in them." 

In arranging his sonnets, the reader will find 
that I have given them the form of an apple, with 
the seeds in the centre. I mean that I have re- 
duced them to something like unity and rotundity, 
and that I have avoided the exhibition of their 
newspaper form. They are strung together, as it 
were, on the thread of the Christian year, begin- 
ning with the sonnet on " Winter," which coincides 
with the season of Advent. The fine sonnet, " On 
beginning the Watchman" is nevertheless the first 
in order of time and of argument, if I may so 
speak ; and nobody, in reading it, can fail to ob- 
serve with what a high sense of doing a work for 
God the poet entered upon that undertaking. It 
is not wonderful, considering this devout start, that 
his short labours in it were crowned with such re- 
markable success. " Could it have been better, 



MEMOIR. 



XXXV 



or different," says Bishop Doane, "if lie had been 
premonished of his course through life, or if he had 
written it on the day on which his life was closed ? " 

What I have likened to the seeds of the work is 
that triplet of sonnets in which there is made a 
transition from those appropriate to the Christian 
seasons, to others of a more general sort. " The 
Prayer" is introduced at the beginning of this 
second part, and the first is concluded by " The 
Valedictory." The " Palinode " is the link that 
unites the two ; and this arrangement has enabled 
me to conclude the whole with that noble sonnet, 
in which the poet's own early but sublime death 
seems to be foreshadowed. 

But the history of the " Palinode " is worthy of 
especial mention. In the valedictory sonnet pub- 
lished in the " Watchman," he prematurely re- 
nounced the poetical vocation, and blamed himself 
for having ventured to employ the name of 
" Asaph " in the production of uninspired com- 
positions. This called forth from his friend Mrs. 
Sigournev the following remonstrance : — 

TO ASAPH. 

OCCASIONED BY HIS VALEDICTORY SONNET. 

0, not farewell, deft ruler of the lyre ; 

Sweet singer of our Israel, not farewell; 
Thou, early called amid the temple choir, 

The glad, high praises of our God to swell ; 



XXXVI 



MEMOIR. 



Levite and priest, who Zion's anthem led, 

Had trembled if their solemn string were mute, 
If the soul's pulse of melody were dead, 

Or hushed the breathings of Jehovah's lute: 
Wouldst thou forego the baptism of the skies ? 

Down at the altar's foot thy censer cast? 
Hide in the earth a gift that seraphs prize, 

Yet faithful hope to be pronounced at last? 
Minstrel, return ! Eesume the hallowed strain ; 
Eepent thee of thy sin, and woo Heaven's harp again. 

In a succeeding sonnet, lie gallantly withdraws 
from any contest with such an authority, and 
returns to his poetical tasks without gainsaying, 
prefixing, from a popular poet, the lines: — 

" Lady, for thee to speak and be obeyed 
Are one." 

If this was a genuine retreat and recall, the 
Church is not a little indebted to her who so 
happily persuaded him not to neglect the gift that 
was in him. And that it was genuine I have no 
doubt at all. Never did any one more scrupulous- 
ly avoid all unreality and affectation, though, in- 
deed, his nature enabled him to do so without 
effort. I have little doubt that the applause which 
he received pained him, in view of his own estima- 
tion of his writings. He had an ideal before him, 
to which his artless rhymes did little justice, and 
the self-dispraise which was always the echo of the 



MEMOIR. xxxvii 

praise of others disgusted him with the attempt. 
Nothing but the conviction that he was really 
doing good and giving enjoyment could stimulate 
him to fresh efforts, and this conviction was wrought 
by those earnest remonstrances of which Mrs. Sig- 
ourney's was but the exponent. In preparing 
these sonnets and the other poems of Dr. Croswell 
for the press, I have forborne to do the part of an 
editor, in correcting them, except only in those 
extreme cases where momentary negligence has 
allowed them to appear with obvious grammatical 
blemishes, or errors equivalent. In these rare in- 
stances I have gently touched the work, from a 
conviction that, without such emendations, they 
would in no wise have been permitted to appear, 
in a permanent volume, by the poet himself. The 
sonnets only seem to have been wrought up to a 
high finish, and many of these are exquisite mosaics, 
which appear to me incapable of being improved. 

But let nobody censure Dr. Croswell for any of 
the defects of these poems, without remembering 
that a sort of friendly violence has been practised 
upon him in making this collection. He was him- 
self aware of his singular disposition to quote from 
others in his own verse, and sometimes uncon- 
sciously to give a new turn of thought to familiar 
forms of expression borrowed from the old poets. 
He has been known to say, "I can hardly tell 



xxxviii MEMOIR. 

whether this is my own, or whether I have merely 
versified what has been ringing in my head as the 
echo of somebody else's voice." The nervous tem- 
perament of the poet is singularly predisposed to 
produce syncope, and I have often seen Croswell 
in such moods as Walton ascribes to Sir Henry 
Wotton, when " a holy lethargy did surprise his 
memory." In new scenes or excitements he was 
subject to these reveries, in which the very effort 
to collect himself bred a momentary confusion, and 
robbed him of what he best understood. His stern 
sense of duty, however, and his love of truthful- 
ness, enabled him to triumph over this infirmity in 
all matters of business ; and it is a proof of his 
strength of mind, that, natural as it would have 
been to him to yield himself to literarv self-indul- 
gence and all the waywardness of genius, he yet 
overcame it by stern principle, and never gave 
his friends the least reason to lament any indiffer- 
ence to effort, save only in this matter of verse- 
making. It will without a doubt be observed, that 
when he borrows his thoughts or expressions, he 
almost always sets the gem anew, or gives it a 
new and felicitous development: — 

" Exiit ad cesium ramis felicibus arbos, 
Miraturque novas frondes et non sua poma." 

It is in the light, ballad verse that what is spe- 
cially his own comes out most vividly. In the 



MEMOIR. xxxix 

verses on " The Ordinal " we have one of the most 
striking pictures that words can give of the scene 
at an ordination of deacons ; but it is also full of the 
man, — of William Croswell, in his young, fervent, 
simple-hearted piety, devoting himself to Christ, 
and binding his heart as a sacrifice to the horns of 
the altar. So, in the verses on " Christmas," the 
fragrancy of the hemlock, with which Trinity 
Church in New Haven is usually decorated, and 
the precise effect of the wintry light through the 
frosted panes and the green foliage, are translated 
into the verse with great descriptive power ; yet 
the deep tone of feeling which these beauties of 
the holy place ought to produce comes out also as 
the real matter of the poet's delight, and we have 
not only what should be their effect, but just what 
was their effect, in his pious soul. A similar reality 
is to be observed in a very different poem (in some 
respects his best production), — that on u The Syna- 
gogue." No one who has ever been present at 
the Jewish worship can fail to remark how stereo- 
scopic is the view given, in CroswelTs verses, of 
the instructive scene: — 

" It is the holy Sabbath eve ; the solitary light 

Sheds, mingled with the hues of day, a lustre nothing 
bright ; 

On swarthy brow and piercing glance it falls with sad- 
dening tinge, 

And dimly gilds the Pharisee's phylacteries and fringe." 



xl MEMOIR. 

How truly the touch of genius is here ! It is the 
very colouring and chiar'oscuro of Kembrandt ; and 
yet we have something more in the felicity of 
expression, which at once translates into Hebrew, 
as it were, the thoughts and emotions of the 
moment. It reproduces the Oriental climate, and 
for a time the homely Jew of St. Giles' is "the 
Pharisee," and the mere scarf to which his gorgeous 
raiment has dwindled down is invested with the 
beauty and propriety of full Mosaic attire. The 
opening of the Ark, or receptacle of the Law; 
the display of the holy books in their decorated 
coverings ; and then the reading of " the backward 
letters " by the minister, — how perfectly it is pre- 
sented in the spirit of the Jew himself ! Yet Cros- 
well could not be a Jew even in poetic dream. 
There are other poets who might have written 
these verses so far ; but the rest is our poet, just 
as he was, looking on, with a yearning heart, and 
praying for the consolation of Israel : — 

" And fervently that hour I prayed, that, from the mighty 

scroll, 
Its light in burning characters might break on every soul ; 
That on their hardened hearts the veil might be no 

longer dark, 
But be forever rent in twain, like that before the Ark." 

Observe, also, in the concluding stanza, how the 
spirit of the Gospel triumphs over the Jew in 



MEMOIR. xli 

fervent charity only, and exults in the prospect 
of his conversion ! The theological critic only will 
be able to perceive the great power which resides 
in the combinations of the last two lines, — Messiah 
with Jesus Christ, but above all, Jehovah with 
the Nazarene ! The " nameless name" of Jehovah 
— a word so sacred that the Jew would not speak 
it — coupled with that of " the Nazarene," in 
which he concentrated all that he most hated, de- 
spised, and loathed ! 

" For yet the tenfold film shall fall, Judah ! from thy 

sight, 
And every eye be purged to read thy testimonies right, 
When thou with all Messiah's signs, in Christ distinctly 

seen, 
Shalt, by Jehovah's nameless name, invoke the Nazarene." 

He once said to me, when I asked him where he 
got that peculiar ballad tune of his, which runs 
one line into another with only the slightest pause 
on the rhyme : " O, that 's a mere echo of Tom 
Moore ; I suspect it came from, — 

' The bird let loose in Eastern skies,' 
or some such elevated ditty," at which he pleasant- 
ly smiled. He never would admit that he had 
much poetry in him. " At any rate," said he, " I 
never yet could find that vein of unwritten poetry 
of which the good Bishop of New Jersey accuses 
me." Yet he owned to me, on one occasion (when 



xlii MEMOIR. 

we were reading some really good poetry lie had 
just received in an English publication), that he 
had himself felt what I could not but exclaim, as I 
read it : u Why, Croswell, this man has got not only 
your thoughts, but your own special harmony of 
words and jingle of rhymes ! " He never said much 
on the subject ; but he once confessed to me how 
much he longed to write some poems for children, 
of which he felt himself capable. He liked best 
what he had written with least trouble, and he 
had a fondness for the brevity and abruptness of 
some of his verses. When on a journey with him, 
I reminded him of his " Traveller's Hymn," which 
I had seen but could not remember ; and he told 
me, if I recollect aright, that it was a sort of Im- 
promptu, which bubbled up when he was going 
with Dr. Wainwright from Boston to New York, 
to attend the General Convention. Some one had 
said, " there should be more of it," which amused 
him, for he thought long and wordy talk was the 
plague of the nation. " A fellow once called on 
me," he added, " to get the rest of two little poems, 
of which he would not believe a few verses could 
be all, for he seemed never to have seen a song 
of only two stanzas." These poems which were 
too short to be satisfactory were those on " St. 
Stephen " and " Christmas." Their brevity was 
their merit, in Croswell's judgment. He often 



MEMOIR. xliii 

laughed good-huraouredly at one who persisted in 
manufacturing poetry by the yard. 

But it will not be necessary to anticipate the 
intelligent reader in his own comments on these 
works. I would only add. that where Dr. Croswell 
is occasionally satirical, it is simply playfulness indulg- 
ing itself in truthfulness ; it is never bitterness nor 
envy, nor hatred nor malice. The exquisite sense 
of the ridiculous by which he was distinguished, and 
his delicate sense of the absurdity of manv things 
in which the half-educated mind and heart find 
contentment, if not delight, were ever prompting 
him to expressions of keenest wit and sarcasm. 
But it was the mere sarcasm of taste and feeling ; 
never that of ill-will. A heart more universally 
warmed towards his kind, in every station and 
degree, and more capable of overlooking every- 
thing in a human being, for Christ's sake, I have 
never found. 

Had Dr. Croswell, instead of devoting his life 
to the service of souls, given all his thought to 
the development of his poetical gifts, no competent 
judge who knew him can doubt that he would 
have left to his country, if not a great, yet a 
famous and an enduring name. As it is, he de- 
serves to be remembered, without reference to other 
claims, for his poetry alone, and by it ; for if it be 
not the critic's poetry, it is yet the Christian's, and 



xliv MEMOIR. 

in the holy keeping of the Faithful it will be pre- 
served without effort, for it will live in many hearts. 
He was a poet by every token that belongs to 
the character of one inspired by the Muse. No 
unhealthy, raving, maniacal utterer of nonsense 
tagged with rhyme, only occasionally rising into a 
higher than his natural elevation of sentiment, and 
mingling his unwisdom with words of feeling and 
of truth, — no such creature of imitation and affec- 
tation was he ! His genius was real, because it 
was healthful, unstudied, unlaboured, often put 
away by effort, but never put on. It was said, with 
the greatest truthfulness, by the friend who best 
knew him, that " his poetry was practical. It was 
the way-flower of his daily life, — its violet, its 
cowslip, its pansy. It sprang up where he walked. 
You could not get a letter from him, — though made 
up of the details of business, or the household 
trifles of his hearth, — that some sweet thought, as 
natural as it was beautiful, would not bubble up 
above the surface with prismatic hues. ,, Such 
springs of thought and genuine feeling were ever 
welling forth in his talk ; though, when he became 
conscious of it, or observed that he was exciting 
surprise and pleasure, he would often blush and 
check himself. This was the " unwritten poetry " 
which Bishop Doane ascribed to him. Had he 
only brought forth this ore, refined and coined it, 
how rich his poetical works would have been ! 



MEMOIR. xlv 

But he cared not for the name or fame of a poet, 
and hence he elaborated nothing. All that he has 
left us is only to be regarded as virtually im- 
provisation. What he would have said, in conver- 
sation occasionally took rhyme and measure, and 
occasionally he would write it down. In all his 
poetry we have the photograph of some genuine 
emotion, or some real incident, which happened to 
be caught while it was shaping itself into the mel- 
ody which was its native form in the mind of the 
poet. If a critic should say "we have nothing fin- 
ished in these poems," it would be not altogether 
untrue. It is because they were never intended to 
be poems, — they are the author's thoughts as they 
were conceived. He thought in rhythmical senten- 
ces : and when he had set down such thoughts, there 
he left them. An artist would have worked them 
up into a marketable shape ; but though Croswell 
was a poet, the " art of poetry " was not his trade. 

The reason of this was that he found in his sa- 
cred calling that which satisfied every feeling and 
absorbed all his thoughts and energies. The living 
poetry of the Church's sublime system, — its in 
spired doctrines, its orderly structure, its majestic 
Liturgy and Ritual, the music of its hymns and an- 
thems, the flowers of its festivals ; yea, and the 
homely attractiveness of its charities ; its pathway 
among the poor, the sorrowing, the sick and the 



xlvi MEMOIR. 

dying ; its holy ministries to the dead, — these were 
the things in which his life found satisfaction with- 
out satiety. He loved alike the simplicity and the 
beauty of the Anglican Church. He believed it to 
be the undiluted native Christianity of apostles and 
martyrs ; he saw in it the New Testament practi- 
cally carried out. Its naked charms were the object 
of his unswerving love ; he wished neither more nor 
less than what he regarded as hers. Hence, it was 
beautiful to see with what unquestioning sincerity 
he took every intimation of the rubric as meaning 
precisely what it said, and not to be explained 
away. His Mother's voice was to him the best 
interpreter of his Father's will. That he was 
fulfilling his priesthood was consolation enough, 
while he spent the torrid summer months in Bos- 
ton, and went to and fro among the poor, almost all 
others having left the city. He was remonstrated 
with for his self-sacrificing labours. " Yes ! " he an- 
swered, " but the poor need me, and when I find 
myself left in Boston, to minister to the sick, and 
bury the dead, I love to feel that I can represent 
the pastoral care of the Church among those who 
are estranged from her ; and I assure you, it is a 
rich reward to walk at the head of the meanest 
funeral in the garments of her ministry." 

The poems of such a man are not poems, then, in 
the ordinary sense of the word. They are not the 



MEMOIR. xlvii 

productions of literary canons, and of one zealous to 
deserve well of critics. In the estimation of such as 
would judge them on purely critical rules, however, 
they could not fail of a much higher rank than has 
been often attained by religious poetry, in America. 
There is very little resemblance to George Her- 
bert in the structure of Croswell's poems. In fact, 
considering the great similarity between the two 
characters, and the matter of their thoughts and af- 
fections, the two are as unlike in their poetry as the 
seventeenth century is unlike the nineteenth, or as 
England is unlike New England. And yet, in 
what Coleridge says of the one, I would speak of 
the other, only excepting the mention of classical 
tastes, which are not so requisite for the appreciation 
of Croswell. " He is a true poet, but a poet sui 
generis" says Coleridge, " the merits of whose poems 
will never be felt without a sympathy with the 
mind and character of the man. To appreciate 
him, it is not enough that the reader possesses a 
cultivated judgment, classical taste, or even poetic 
sensibility, unless he be likewise a Christian, and 
both a zealous and an orthodox, both a devout and 
a devotional Christian. But even this will not quite 
suffice. He must be an affectionate and dutiful 
child of the Church, and (from habit, conviction, 
and a constitutional predisposition to ceremonious- 
ness, in piety as in manners) find her forms and or- 



xlviii MEMOIR. 

dinances aids of religion, not sources of formality ; 
for religion is the element in which he lives, and 
the region in which he moves." Coleridge adds a 
very just remark, which it would be well for Cros- 
well's readers to bear in mind. He says that what 
the Puritans regarded as papistic in the Church- 
men of the Stuart period, was rather patristic. 
Their habits of mind were bred of that primitive 
apostolicity, which, though wholly unlike the relig- 
ion of the Puritans, resembles Popery only as gold 
is like brass, or like touchwood that is covered with 
tinsel. 

Horace expected to be remembered so long as 
the rites of his religion should be perpetuated on 
. the Capitol. I believe these poems of my venerated 
friend will survive while a single priest ministers, in 
white raiment, at the altars of the Church, and so 
long as her Faithful wait on the solemn services 
of the Christian Year, from Advent to Advent. If 
ever those sublime offices shall come to an end in our 
land, it would be a glorious thing to let one's memo- 
rial perish with them ; but since there is nothing so 
imperishable as the Church of the Living God, I 
believe that, as he was content to consecrate his 
genius to her service, his writings will partake of her 
immortality, 

A. C. C. 

Baltimore, 1860. 




SONNETS. 





I. 



WINTER. 



The moon and stars light up their wintry fire ; 

And, kindling with a lustre more intense, 

As if to quell the frosty influence 
Which wraps the world in its unstained attire, 
They draw our spirits heavenward to admire. 

Nor them alone. For in the marbled sky 

Ten thousand little snow-white cloudlets lie, 
In fleecy clusters ranged from east to west, 

Which meet the toil-worn swain's exalted eye, 
As when he sees upon the upland's breast 
His own unspotted flock at silent rest, 

With all their new-born mountain lambkins by, 
And to his meditative mind recall 
The mighty Shepherd that o'erlooks them all. 

3 







II. 



CHRISTMAS. 

O, haste the rites of that auspicious day, 

When white-robed altars, wreathed in living green, 

Adorn the temples* and, hall' hid, half seen, 
The priest and people emulously pay 

Glad homage, with the festal chants between; 
And, aisles and arches echoing back the strain, 

The sylvan tapestry around is stirred ; 

And voices sweeter than the song of bird 
Are resonant within the leafy fane. 

If, in the fadeless foliage gathered there. 
Pale Nature has so bright an offering, 

Where all beside is withered, waste, and bare, 
What lively tribute should OUT spirits bring 

To beautify, O Lord, thy holy place of prayer? 

a Hillhouse-s Vision qf Judgment* 

4 




CqjO KmQ Cr|jO kq 



in. 

SAINT JOHN THE EVANGELIST. 

" The disciple whom Jerai loved*" 

(in in i for the Day, 



O BIGHLT favoured, unto whom 'I, w;is given 

To lay thy band upon the golden keys 

That ope th* empyrean mysterie 
And all the bright apocalypse of heaven ! 
Sweet solace of thy Borrowing soul, when driven 

Into its island banishment alone. 
Thy rapturous spirit has been long at rest. 

Partaker of the glories then foreshown] 

And knowing oven as thy thoughts were, known. 
And if to bide His baptism be the te 

And drink the cup peculiarly His own, 
Then thou hast gained thy mother's fond request, 

And, stationed near the everlasting throne, 
Shalt Lean once more upon t,hy Saviour'- breast. 

5 



IV. 



THE SEVEN CHUKCHES. 



How doth each city solitary sit 

That once was full of people ! Round his path 
The Christian pilgrim finds remaining yet 

The fearful records of accomplished wrath. 

The glory of God's house departed hath ; 
The golden candlestick cannot emit 

One glimmering ray, however faint and dim ; 

There is no consecrated oil to trim 
Th' extinguished flame which once the Spirit lit. 

Alas ! that he who hath an ear to hear 
The teaching of that Spirit, can forget 
These dread fulfilments of prophetic writ, 

Nor lay them to his stricken heart, in fear 
Lest he thus hear, and thus abandon it. 

6 



V. 



EPIPHANY. 



Joy to thy savage realms, O Africa ! 
A sign is on thee that the great I AM 
Shall work new wonders in the land of Ham ; 

And while he tarries for the glorious day 
To bring again his people, there shall be 
A remnant left, from Cushan to the sea. 

And though the Ethiop cannot change his skin, 
Or bleach the outward stain, he yet shall roll 
The darkness off that overshades the soul, 

And wash away the deeper dyes of sin. 
Princes, submissive to the Gospel sway, 

Shall come from Egypt ; and the Morian's land 

In holy transport stretch to God its hand : 
Joy to thy savage realms, Africa ! 

7 



VI 



THE FAR WEST. 



In the recesses of the western wood, 

In to its ver y heart, — by all forgot 

Save Him who made me, — would it were my lot 
To bear the burden of its solitude ; 

And in some wild and unfrequented spot, 
Sharing the Indian hunter's cabin rude, 

To lead, in glad return, a willing guide, 

His humbled spirit to the Crucified ; 
And in the solemn twilight, hushed and dim, 

The forest people often gathering, 

To make the green and pillared arches ring, 
Not with the war-song, but the holy hymn. 

So might I live, and leave no other trace 

Where I had made my earthly dwelling-place. 

8 



VII 



CRETE. 



Ancient of years, the hundred-citied isle ! 

Still art thou left a goodly sight to see : 

To breathe thine air is still a luxury, 
And man alone, of all around, is vile, — 

Tiler than e'en thy first-born Caphtorim. a 
When shalt thou be once more as thou hast been ? 

When shall thy navied strength resistless swim, 
And make thee, Britain-like, an ocean queen ? 
When, rising from the dust, shalt thou be seen 

A nursing mother to the Church a^ain, 
And when, alas ! another Titus come 

To rear the fallen Cross, nor reordain 

In all thy cities priestly men in Tain, 
But leave thy name a praise in Christendom ? 

a Amos ix. 7. 
9 



VIII. 

LENT. 

The holy Lenten time is now far spent ; 

And from the muffled altars, everywhere, 

Full many a warning voice has bid prepare 
The Lord's highway, and cried aloud, Repent ! 
And be your hearts, and not your garments, rent ; 

And turn unto the Lord your God with prayer. 
Not, as aforetime, are the contrite sent 

To sackcloth, ashes, and the shirt of hair, 

Or knotted thong ; but consciences laid bare, 
And lowly minds, and knees in secret bent, 
And fasts in spirit, mark the penitent. 

Let not the broken-hearted, then, despair ; 
The sighs of those who worthily lament 

Their sins, reach Heaven, and are accepted there. 
10 



IX 



CHRIST BEARING THE CROSS. 



SUGGESTED BY A PAINTING. 



If thou wouldst fortify thy young belief, 
Christian disciple, read with anxious look 
The pictured comment on the holy book, 

That tells the sufferings of thy chosen Chief, 

Nor let the look be single, neither brief: 

That tortured eye, and countenance so meek, 
So mild, and yet majestical, bespeak 

The Man of Sorrows, intimate with grief. 
From Him learn how divinity could lend 

A dignity to suffering, nor disdain 

Art's utmost effort in one face to blend 

Immortal fortitude with mortal pain ; 

And let not faith despise the aid of sense, 
Nor spurn the pencil's mute omnipotence. 
11 



X. 



TO THE HEPATICA TRILOBA, 



FOUND IN MARCH. 



Why liftest thou, so premature, thy head 

Amid the withered waste, pale flower? Say, why 

Dost thou, alone and desolate, defy 
The year, yet unconfirmed, while there is shed 
No wholesome dew upon thy leaf-strewn bed, 

All choked and matted; but the frost-wind's sigh 

Is heard, at eve, thy chill slope rustling by ? 
Hast thou forgot thy time, or dost thou spread 

Thy sweet leaves to the air, and smiling wave 
? Mid blasted verdure, like the garland shed 

By fond affection o'er the early grave, 
To breathe its bloom around the youthful dead ? 

Short be their sleep in dust as thine, fair flower ! 

So wake to life and joy when past their wintry hour ! 
12 



XI 



EASTER. 



Once more thou comest, O delicious Spring ! 
And as thy light and gentle footsteps tread 
Among earth's glories, desolate and dead, 

Breathest revival over everything. 

Thy genial spirit is abroad to bring 

The cold and faded into life and bloom, 
Emblem of that which shall unlock the tomb, 

And take away the fell destroyer's sting. 

Therefore thou hast the warmer welcoming : 
For Nature speaks not of herself alone, 
But in her resurrection tells our own. 

As from its grave comes forth the buried grain, 
So man's frail body, in corruption sown, 

In incorruption shall be raised again. 

13 




rrrrrrrrnm 



XII. 

INFANT BAPTISM. 

How heavenly an inheritance is thine, 

Sweet babe ! whom yon baptismal group present. 

Now that the consecrating element 
Hath bathed thy forehead, and the crucial sign 
Is as a frontlet bound between the eyne, 

In token that hereafter thou shalt be 
A faithful soldier in the cause divine, 

And, in thy triple warfare, manfully 
Beneath the banner of the Cross shalt fight. 
If Christ himself so tenderly invite 

The little children to his heavenly fold, 
They mock his ordinance, and do despite 

Unto his high behest, who dare withhold 
Or yet delay the pure, regenerating rite. 

14 



XIII 



CONFIRMATION. 



The white-stoled Bishop stood amid the crowd, 
Novitiates all, who, tutored to revere 
The mitre's holy offices, drew near, 

And, after sins renounced and pledges vowed, 
Pale with emotion and religious fear, 

In meek subjection, round the chancel, Jtowed 
To hallowed hands, that o'er them, one by one, 
Fell with a Prelate's thrilling benison. 

Thou, who canst make the loadstone's touch impart 
An active virtue to the tempered steel, 
O, let Thy hand rest on them, till they feel 

A new-born impulse stirring in the heart, 
And, swinging from surrounding objects free, 
Point with a tremulous confidence to Thee. 

15 







XIV, 



THE KNOT. 



Holy and happy be the wedded pair, 

Who, typifying here the solemn rite 

To which the Bridegroom and His Church invite 
The good in heaven hereafter, hope to share 
The glories of His great espousal there. 

They, when He cometh at the dead of night 
In triumph with the Spirit and the Bride, 

Shall go to meet Him, with their odorous light 

Well trimmed and burning steadily and bright, 
And entering in together, side by side, 

In wedding garments robed of purest white, 

With crowns of gold, and waving boughs of palm, 
Sit down among the hosts beatified, 

Guests at the marriage supper of the Lamb. 

16 



XV. 



COMMUNION OF THE SICK. 

KEBLE'S POEM IN ANOTHER VERSION. 

A simple altar stood beside the bed, 
With plate, and chalice, and fair linen vest, 

For that communion high and holy spread : 
We ate and drank, and then, serenely blest, 

All mourners, one with calmly parting breath, 

We talked together of the Saviour's death. 
O gentle spirit, from thy sainted rest 

Look down upon us who must yet remain, 

With whom thou shared the hallowed cup of grace, 
And so soon parted ; thou to Christ's embrace, 

We to the world's drear loneliness again ; 

Come, and remind us of the heavenly strain 
We practised as thou passed through Eden's door, 
To be sung on, with angels evermore. 

B 17 



XVI. 

THE KNELL. 

Not e'en thy heavenly and harmonious swell, 

Calling to Sabbath worship with a sound 

From tower to tower reverberated round, 
Can with my spirit harmonize so well 
As that sad requiem, melancholy bell ! 

Which with unvaried cadence, stern and dull, 

Tolls for the burial of the beautiful. 
There is a potent and a thrilling spell 

In every solitary stroke, to start 
Long-cherished thoughts from memory's inmost cell, 
And deep affections ; while each warning tone 

That rests, 'mid solemn pauses far apart, 
Like drops of water dripping on a stone, 

Cheerless and ceaseless, wears into the heart. 

18 






XVII. 

SAINT JAMES THE APOSTLE. 

"When Herod had put forth his hand in hate 

To vex the Church, and thy heart's blood was pour'd 

Beneath the tyrant's persecuting sword, 
First of the chosen twelve, 't is said thy fate 
So wrought on thine accuser, that, o'ercome 

By thine example, and by grace subdued, 

He came, with voluntary fortitude, 
To share the torture of thy martyrdom, 

And thus pronounce his conscience satisfied. 

Cheering each other onward, side by side, 
Together went betrayer and betrayed, 
And on the self-same block their heads were laid ; 

And while their blood the self-same scaffold dyed, 
The self-same faith unshrinkingly displayed. 
19 



& 



XVIII. 

SAINT BAKTHOLOMEW. 

Though it were eminence enough to be 

Enrolled among the apostolic few, 
Who, at their Master's call, devotedly 

Went forth his self-denying work to do, 

This is not all thy praise, Bartholomew ; 
Thou for such fellowship wast set apart 

By One who saw thee from afar, and knew 
Thy spirit undefiled and void of art. 

And still the portrait which thy Saviour drew 
Bears record to thy singleness of heart. 
For wide as Gospel tidings have been spread 

Throughout all tongues, o'er continent and isle, 
Shall this memorial to thy worth be read, — 

An Israelite indeed, in whom there is no guile. 
20 



XIX 



SAINT MATTHEW. 



Renouncing a vocation so abhorred, 

Uncertain riches and the lust of gain, 
How blest it were, commanded by the Lord, 

While yet he passes by, to join his train, 
And, taking up his cross, to walk like thee ! 

Nor be the power of those examples vain 
Which thine own sacred registries record ; 
But, written for our learning, may they be 
Read, marked, discerned, digested inwardly, 

Until we see the path of duty plain, 
Embrace the truth, and ever hold it fast, 
And pressing onward, daily self-surpassed, 

By comfort of that holy word, attain 
The same eternal promises at last. 
21 






XX. 

MICHAELMAS. 

Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates ! 

While, with our brethren of the crystal sky, 

God's glorious name we laud and magnify. 
Angels, Archangels, Powers, and Potentates, 
Dominions, Thrones, and thou, pre-eminent, 

Among the leaders of the orders bright, 

Who beat in battle from the starry height 
Th' apostate spirit down his dread descent. 

With these, O Michael, the redeemed unite 
In that triumphant and eternal hymn, 
Which, passing to each other, Cherubim 

And Seraphim continually do cry : 
Holy, thrice holy, Lord of love and light ! 

All glory be to thee, O God most high ! 
22 




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XXI 



SAINT LUKE. 



Blessed Physician ! from thy ancient scroll 
Can we not draw some wholesome medicine 
To heal the heart that sickens with its sin, 

And cure the deep distemper of the soul ? 

Is there no balm in Gilead, to make whole 
The bruised and broken spirit, and within 
The bleeding bosom stanch the wound, and win 

The stubborn malady to its control ? 

Blessed Physician ! happy is thy dole, 

Whose praise hath in the Gospel ever been ; 

For thou wast His disciple who could bring 
Help to the helpless on their bed of pain, 
And from the gates of double death again 

Restore the hopeless in their languishing. 

23 




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XXII. 

FOXE'S BOOK OF MAKTYKS. 

I well remember, from my earliest age, 

How, with a yearning heart, I loved to look, 
Old Chronicler, upon thy pictured page, 

That lent a glory to thy Martyrs' Book ; 
And as I saw the patient sufferers there, 

Like the three children in the furnace flame, 
Without a smell of fire, unsinged their hair, 

From year to year unaltered and the same, 
I thought that even martyrdom was light, 

And counted them as happy who endured 
A fire no fiercer than it seemed to sight, 

Of God's good will eternally secured ! 
Thus do we look on sufferings yet untried, 
Which man can only bear, when Heaven is on his 
side! 

24 



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XXIII. 
VALEDICTORY. 

ON CLOSING A SERIES OF POEMS SIGNED ' ; ASAPH." 

Why have I dared to wake the sacred string, 
Silent for ages, fearing not to hold 
High harping with that glorious bard of old, 

The chief musician to the minstrel king ? 

Alas ! that e'er presumptuous hand should bring 
Dishonour on that borrowed name, or wrong 
The leader in the service of the song. 

Though fain to make his loud Shoshannim ring 
In concert with the consecrated throng, — 
Who in their solemn courses, all life long, 
Kept Zion's courts resounding with its swell, — 

So faint and fitful are the sounds I fling, 
My soul recoils lest they profane the shell ; 
Farewell, then, hallowed harp ! forever fare thee 
well! 

25 



XXIV 



PALINODE. 



"Lady, for thee to speak, axd be obeyed, 
Are oxe." 

While I, adventurous all too long, retire, 
Expecting scarcely pardon, much less praise, 
The unstrung chords what sweeping spirit sways ? 

What sudden murmurings from the abandoned lyre 

Pass on the breeze, and, as they pass, expire ? 
O, could my disproportioned powers retain, 
Forever treasured up, that cherished tone, 
And blend, yet not abase it, with my own, 
Its sweet reproaches had not been in vain ; 

Yea, could I, kindled with a kindred fire, 
But hope to catch the echoings of that voice 

Which bids my harp renew its feeble strain, 
How would my bounding bosom then rejoice, 

Nor breathe distrust of God's good gifts again ! 

26 



JEfe& 




XXV 



A PKAYER, 



ON BEGINNING A PERIODICAL NAMED " THE WATCHMAN. ' 



Thou, whom slumber reacheth not, nor sleep, 
The guardian God of Zion, in whose sight 
A thousand years pass like a watch at night, 

Her battlements and high munitions keep, 
Or else the Watchman waketh but in vain. 

Him, in his station newly set, make strong, 
And, in his vigils, vigilant ; sustain 

His overwearied spirit, in its long 

And lonely round from eve till matin-song ; 

And of Thy charge remind him, Watch and pray. 

So, whether coming at the midnight bell, 
Or at cock-crowing, or at break of day, 

Thou find him faithful, and say, All is well, 

How rich is the reward of that true sentinel t 

27 



XXVI. 

TRINITY COLLEGE, HARTFORD. 

In after days shall come heroic youth, 

Warm from the school of glory : With a pride 
I quote thy high prediction, Akenside, 

In joyous hope to realize its truth, 

Ere envious Time print his undainty tooth 

Upon these sombre walls ; which then descried 
'Mid groves that half develope and half hide, 

Shall haply stay some loiterer by the flow 

Of Hart's sweet waves, that gladden as they glide 

By wooded steep, green bank, and margin low, 
Till o'er his soul float up in classic dream 

The long-lost image of the Portico, 

The Sophist's seat, fast by Ilyssus' stream, 
Lyceum's green retreats, and walks of Academe. 

28 



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XXVII. 

ON THE DEATH OF A PASTOR. 

Devoted shepherd of thy Saviour's flock ! 

From thy sublime and loved vocation rent, 
'Tis joy to know the overwhelming shock 

Of thy bewept departure shall augment 
The multitudinous army of the good, 
And raise thee to that holy brotherhood. 

Ashes to ashes, dust to kindred dust, 
Thy body is committed to the ground ; 
Thy spirit, with all Christian graces crowned, 

(Such is our certain confidence and trust,) 

Enjoys communion with the sainted just. 
Long may such servants of the Church abound, 

And, from the altars where thy light has stood, 
Shed burning lustre on the land around ! 

29 



XXVIIL 



BURIAL OF ASHMUN. 



What desolate mourner rushes to the bier, 
And stays the solemn rites of this sad hour ? 

God, sustain her as she draweth near, 
Support her in the struggles that o'erpower ! 

It is a childless mother that bows down 

Beside the coffined corpse, amid the crowd ; 

It is the ashes of her only son, 

His living face unseen for many a year : 

Well may she lift her voice, and weep aloud. 

The world cannot console her. God alone 

Hath power to speak to such a sorrowing one, 
And take her dreadful load of grief away : 
To man it is not given ; for who can say, 

In his own single strength, " Thy will be done " ? 

30 



^^M^^MsM^M:^ 




XXIX 



MEMOKIAL 



OF A COLOURED CLERGYMAN ORDAINED FOR A MISSION 
TO AFRICA. 

Not on the voyage which our hopes had planned 
Shalt thou go forth, poor exile, o'er the main ; 

The savage glories of thy fatherland 
Shall never bless thy aged sight again ; 
Nor shalt thou toil to loose a heavier chain 

Than e'er was fastened by the spoiler's hand. 

And yet the work for which thy bosom yearned 
Shall never rest, though Sin and Death detain 
Messiah from his many-peopled reign, 

Till all thy captive brethren have returned. 

But thou hast gained, (O blest exchange !) instead, 
A better country, and a heavenly home, 
Where all the ransomed of the Lord shall come, 

With everlasting joy upon their head. 

31 



XXX. 

TO A FRIEND, 

ON HIS CONSECRATION TO THE EPISCOPATE. 

Let no gainsaying lips despise thy youth ; 

Like his, the great Apostle's favourite son, 

Whose early rule at Ephesus begun, 
Thy Urim and thy Thummim — Light and Truth — 

Be thy protection from the Holy One : 
And for thy fiery trials, be there shed 
A sevenfold grace on thine anointed head, 

Till thy rigid onward course shall all be run. 
And when thy earthly championship is through, 

Thy warfare fought, thy fearful battle won, 
And heaven's own palms of triumph bright in view, 

May this thy thrilling welcome be : Well done ! 
Because thou hast been faithful over few, 
A mightier rule be thine, O servant good and true f 

32 



^6MW^0^^M 




XXXI. 



THE CATECHIST. 



TO A SUOTAY-SCHOOL TEACHER. 



Much do we miss thee from thy gentle task 

Of love and mercy, on the Sabbath day, 
As gather round thy little ones, to ask 

What keeps their kindly Teacher far away. 
The sweet and solemn quiet of the hours, 

The sounds as solemn and as sweet as they, 
In sevenfold cadence flung from yon old towers, 

Where thou so oft hast met with us to pray, — 
These and the blessing on each head that brings 

Young souls from darkness into light divine, 
Connect thy memory with all heavenliest things, 

And make a day of glorious prospect thine, 
When they shall rise on strong, immortal wings, 

And like a starry firmament shall shine. 

C 33 



XXXII 



IN AN ALBUM. 



Here, Lady, as from some Sibylline leaf, 
Read of the after time, when thou shalt know 
Thou hast a mightier book than Prospero ; 
Albeit he of necromancers chief 

Boasted his volume of enchanting power, 
(As thou hast read, whose leisure loves to pore 
On Britain's and thy country's choicest lore,) 

To call departed spirits to his bower. 
This is the potent tome, which ere while, spread 
At mystic moments, when thy soul has read 
Each penman's spellwork, howsoever brief, 

Shall straight recall his form in life and limb ; 
Then Heaven forefend, that gentle hearts, with grief, 
Or yet in anger, should remember him. 

34 



XXXIII. 



TO A WINGED FIGURE BY RAPHAEL. 



Whether thou gazest up to some far isle 

In the star-sprinkled depths above, where live 
The race from whom thou art a fugitive, 

Unseen, unheard from, for a dreary while ; 

Or whether, seeking to restrain the smile 
That rises to thy lips, thy fingers strive 
To hide what eyes so bold and bright contrive ; 

Or whether, meditating good or guile, 

Thou restest on thine arm contemplative, — 
Are problems deeper than where thought can dive. 

But if thy breast be not a holy pile, 

Where naught unclean hath entered to defile, 
Then Heaven forgive thee, false one ! and forgive 

That I should trifle with a theme so vile. 

35 



XXXIV. 



MEDITATION 



ON THE DEATH OF A CLERGYMAN. 



As some tall column meets its overthrow, 
And levelled in the dust reclines, at length, 
In all its graceful symmetry of strength, 

So manhood, in his middle years, lies low, 

Singled by death from out the stateliest, 
While yet he lifts his towering head elate, 
And feels the firmer for the very weight 

Of all that in dependence on him rest. 

Ah, why should we bewail his present fall, 
Though prostrate now, and basely undertrod, 

If, at the Master Builder's final call, 

He stand amid the upright as before, 
A pillar in the temple of his God, 

And from his happy station go no more ? 

36 




b 




9£) 



POEMS. 





CLOUDS. 

" Cloud-land ! gorgeous land ! " — Colebidge. 

I cannot look above, and see 

Yon high-piled, pillowy mass 
Of evening clouds, so swimmingly 

In gold and purple pass, 
And think not, Lord, how Thou wast seen 

On Israel's desert way, 
Before them, in thy shadowy screen, 

Pavilioned all the day ; — 



Or of those robes of gorgeous hue 

Which the Redeemer wore, 
TVhen, ravished from his followers' view, 

Aloft his flight he bore ; 
When, lifted as on mighty wing, 

He curtained his ascent, 
And, wrapt in clouds, went triumphing 

Above the firmament. 

39 



40 CLOUDS. 

Is it a trail of that same pall 

Of many-coloured dyes 
That high above, o'ermantling all, 

Hangs midway down the skies ? 
Or borders of those sweeping folds 

Which shall be all unfurled 
About the Saviour, when he holds 

His judgment on the world ? 

For in like manner as he went 

(My soul, hast thou forgot ?) 
Shall be his terrible descent, 

When man expecteth not. 
Strength, Son of man ! against that hour, 

Be to our spirits given, 
When thou shalt come again, with power, 

Upon the clouds of heaven. 




DRINK, AND AWAY! 

11 There is a beautiful rill in Barbary received into a large basin, 
which bears a name signifying Drink, and away ! from the great 
danger of meeting with rogues and assassins." 



Dr. Shaw. 



Mr. pilgrim and rover ! 

Redouble thy haste, 
Nor rest thee till over 

Life's wearisome waste : 
Ere the wild forest ranger 

Thy footsteps betray 
To trouble and danger, 

O, drink, and away ! 



Here lurks the dark savage 

By night and by day, 
To rob and to ravage, 

Nor scruples to slay. 
He waits for the slaughter ; 

The blood of his prey 
Shall stain the still water ; 

Then drink, and away ! 

41 



42 DRINK, AND AWAY! 

With toil though thou languish, 

The mandate obey : 
Spur on, though in anguish ; 

There 's death in delay. 
No bloodhound, want-wasted, 

Is fiercer than they ; 
Pass by it untasted, 

Or drink, and away ! 

Though sore be the trial, 

Thy God is thy stay ; 
Though deep the denial, 

Yield not in dismay ; 
But, rapt in high vision, 

Look on to the day 
When fountains elysian 

Thy thirst shall allay. 

Then shalt thou forever 

Enjoy thy repose, 
Where life's gentle river 

Eternally flows ; 
Yea, there shalt thou rest thee 

Forever and aye, 
With none to molest thee : 

Then drink, and away ! 




WHEELOCK COTTAGE, MEDFIELD. 

O, worthy of the artist's skill, 

And passing fair to see, 
That humble cot beneath the hill, 

That shadowing willow-tree ; 
The places where, with hook and line, 

We dabbled in the pond, 
(From morning sun to hungry dine,) 

And all that lies beyond ! 



But who shall paint the inmate there, 

The pleasant face that made 
The scene around us doubly fair. 

And sunshine in the shade, — 
Whose cheerful age, reproving me 

When I at luck repine, 
Seems, in its soothing harmony, 

So like to auld lang syne f 

43 



44 



WHEELOCK COTTAGE. 



A thousand happy days and blest 

May Heaven award thee still, 
Dear friend ! before thou go to rest 

With those upon the hill ; 
There may'st thou meet, in love's embrace, 

The friends thou here hast known, 
And see each fond, familiar face 

As happy as thine own. 




THE EOBIN'S NEST, 

DESTROYED BY A CAT. 

All day, from yonder churchyard tree, 

The redbreast, mourning for his mate, 
Has poured that thrilling elegy, 

Heart-broken and disconsolate. 
Her favourite bough he never leaves ; 

He never ceases to complain ; 
But grieves, as if, like man, he grieves 

The more because he grieves in vain. 

Poor bird ! a troubled thought they wake, 

Those notes of unaffected sorrow, — 
The thought how this sad heart may ache 

With that same bitter pang to-morrow. 
I dare not think what clouds of gloom 

Upon our sunny hopes may fall, 
And in one hour of bliss may doom 

Dear mate, and nest, and nestlings all ! 

45 



NATURE AND EEVELATION. 

IMITATED FROM THE PERSIAN OF KHOSROO. 

I wandered by the burying-place, 

And sorely there I wept, 
To think how many of my friends 

Within its mansions slept ; 
And, wrung with bitter grief, I cried 

Aloud in my despair, 
Where, dear companions, have ye fled ? 

And Echo answered, Where ? 



While Nature's voice thus flouted me, 

A voice from heaven replied, — 
O, weep not for the happy dead, 

Who in the Lord have died ; 
Sweet is their rest who sleep in Christ, 

Though lost awhile to thee ; 
Tread in their steps, and sweeter still 

Your meeting hour shall be ! 

46 



A NIGHT THOUGHTS 

Pet lilies of your kind, 

Effeminate and pale, 
That shiver in the autumn wind, 

Like reeds before the gale, 
Ye have not toiled nor spun, 

As sister lilies might, 
Nor are ye wise as Solomon, 

Though sumptuous to the sight. 

O fair, and well arrayed ! 

And are ye they to whom 
The world is under tribute laid 

For finery and perfume ? 
And have ye no delight, 

Naught else that may avail, 
To weather that eternal night, 

When these expedients fail ? 

a See Young, Night Second, lines 232-253. 
47 



GEEECE. 

"A debtor to the Greeks." — St. Paul. 

Upon thy sacred mountain-tops, 

How beautiful, O Greece, 
The feet of him that publisheth 

Through all thy borders peace ! 
Like Paul, his spirit to release 

Of those high claims he seeks. 
Which bankrupt all the love we owe 

As debtors to the Greeks. 



A piercing cry from Mace don 

Rings o'er the ocean still, 
A cry from Athens, and the shrine 

Upon its idol-hill. 
A cry from Corinth and the Isles 

Of loud entreaty speaks : 
Up, Christians ! to your great discharge, 

As debtors to the Greeks. 

48 



THE BROOK KEDRON. 

" He went over the brook Kedron with his disciples." — St. John. 

The vale of thy brook of Life's valley so drear 

Meet emblem, dark Kedron, might be, 
As it swelled in its hurried and horrid career 

To the depths of. a desolate sea : 
Unceasingly fed with the blood of the slain 

From the Temple's far height was its flow, 
Till it seemed like some wounded and wandering vein 

That was lost in the distance below. 

There David went over, and wept as he went ; 

There his Son in his sorrow passed o'er, 
And his garments were dipped in its crimson de- 
scent, 

Like a warrior's, wading in gore ; 
And, wrapt in forebodings of anguish and woe, 

It heightened that vision of pain, 
When the blood of a mightier Victim should flow, 

And the Lamb of the promise be slain. 

D 49 



50 



THE BROOK KEDROK 



Now, Kedron, for ages thy course has been dried, 

And thy sands are unmarked with a stain, 
Since the Victim ordained from eternity died, 

And the Lamb of the promise was slain ; 
The pilgrim now passes dry-shod o'er thy bed, 

And the thought to his spirit may lay, 
He who drank of the brook hath uplifted his head, 

And hath borne our transgressions away ! 



THE SYNAGOGUE. 

" But eTen unto this day, when Moses is read, the vail is upon 
their heart. Nevertheless, when it shall turn to the Lord, the 
vail shall be taken away." — St. Paul. 

I saw them in their synagogue as in their ancient 

day, 
And never from my memory the scene shall fade 

away ; 
For dazzling on my vision still the latticed galleries 

shine 
With Israel's loveliest daughters, in their beauty 

half divine. 



It is the holy Sabbath eve ; the solitary light 
Sheds, mingled with the hues of day, a lustre noth- 



ing bright : 



51 



52 THE SYNAGOGUE. 

On swarthy brow and piercing glance it falls with 

saddening tinge, 
And dimly gilds the Pharisee's phylacteries and 

fringe. 

The two-leaved doors slide slow apart before the 
Eastern screen, 

As rise the Hebrew harmonies, with chanted pray- 
ers between ; 

And 'mid the tissued veils disclosed, of many a gor- 
geous dye, 

Enveloped in their jewelled scarfs, the sacred rec- 
ords lie. 

Eobed in his sacerdotal vest, a silvery-headed man, 
With voice of solemn cadence, o'er the backward 

letters ran ; 
And often yet methinks I see the glow and power 

that sate 
Upon his face, as forth he spread the roll immaculate. 

And fervently, that hour, I prayed, that from the 
mighty scroll 

Its light, in burning characters, might break on ev- 
ery soul ; 

That on their hardened hearts the veil might be no 
longer dark, 

But be forever rent in twain, like that before the ark. 



THE SYNAGOGUE. 53 



For yet the tenfold film shall fall, O Judah ! from 
thy sight, 

And every eye be purged to read thy testimonies 
right, 

When thou, with all Messiah's signs in Christ dis- 
tinctly seen, 

Shalt, by Jehovah's nameless name, invoke the Naz- 
arene. 




MIDNIGHT THOUGHT. 

'T is the very verge of the midnight deep, 

And I hark for the passing-bell, 
That shall presently come, with its solemn sweep, 

To bid the last hour farewell ; 
A lonely vigil it is to keep, 

As I sadly think of those 
Who have sunk away to their long, last sleep, 

And their undisturbed repose. 



But O, how happy to think, this night, 

Of the eyes that are shut, like flowers, 
To open again more fresh and bright, 

With the brighter and fresher hours : 
Of the hosts of God, who pitch their tents 

All £Ood men round about, 
Protecting their slumbering innocence, 

And making their dreams devout ! 

54 






DE PEOFUXDIS. 



' ; There may be a cloud without a rainbow, but there cannot be 
a rainbow without a cloud. : ' 



My soul were dark 
But for the golden light and rainbow hue, 
That, sweeping heaven with their triumphal arc, 

Break on the view. 

Enough to feel 
That God indeed is good. Enough to know, 
Without the gloomy cloud, He could reveal 

No beauteous bow. 



55 



PALESTINE. 



THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN. 

" Several travellers, and, among others, Troilo and D'Arvieux, 
assert that they remarked fragments of walls and palaces in the 
Dead Sea. This statement seems to be confirmed by Maundrell 
and Father Nahan. The ancients speak more positively on this 
subject. Josephus, who employs a poetic expression, says that 
he perceived on the banks of the lake the shades of the over- 
whelmed cities. Strabo gives a circumference of sixty stadia to 
the ruins of Sodom, which are mentioned also by Tacitus. I 
know not whether they still exist ; but as the lake rises and falls 
at certain seasons, it is possible that it may alternately cover and 
expose the skeletons of the reprobate cities." — Chateaubriand. 



I wandered by the Dead Sea brink, in dreaming 

hour, to gaze 
Upon the awful monuments and wrecks of ancient 

days, 
If haply yet its rocky isles might alter on my eyes, 
And, like some arch enchanter's pile, in gramarye 

arise ; 

56 



PALESTINE. 57 

If yet the clustering bitumen its rude resemblance 
bore 

To pomps that here had glorified the younger world 
before, 

And peering still above the tide, if summits might 
be seen, 

Magnificent, like Baly's towers, in sunlight and sea- 
green. 

A mournful sight it was, I ween, that sea, from 

shore to shore 
Unruffled by one venturous wing, unbroken by an 

oar ; 
The air above, the earth around, the desolate ex- 
panse 
Beneath my feet, were all alike without inhabitants ; 
And, nearest like to living thing, the evening wind 

was loud, 
And Jordan, as its raving streams contested passage 

crowd, 
And suffocating bursts of smoke that poison all the 

air, 
Told how God's early wrath had left eternal traces 

there. 

But louder than the Jordan's rush, and deeper than 

the breeze 
That rustled in the hollow reeds, methought, were 

sounds like these ; 



58 PALESTINE. 

They came up with the sulphurous fumes that from 

the surface broke, 
As if the voice of those below in solemn warning 

spoke : — 
O, had the wonders here been done which now are 

done in vain, 
Still had these buried cities stood, the glory of the 

plain ; 
But darker is thy country's doom, and better shall 

it be 
For Sodom, in the judgment day, than, guilty land, 

for thee ! 




AFRICA. 

When shall thy centre opened be ? 

When shall the veil, that lay 
Upon that land of mystery 

So long, be torn away ? 
When shall the hallowed Cross be seen 

Far in those sunny tracts, 
Beyond the lofty mountain screen, 

And thundering cataracts ? 



When shall thy daily barks, that bring 

Rich lading to the sea, 
Of plumes of gorgeous colouring 

And choicest ivory, 
And incense of acacia groves, 

And costly gems, and grains 
Of that most valued gold washed down 

By Abyssinian rains ; — 

59 



60 AFRICA. 

When shall they bear a freightage back 

More precious than those woods, 
Whose fragrance fills the Niger's track 

In seasons of the floods ? 
When shall each kingdom that receives 

The Gospel, learn to prize 
The treasures hidden in its leaves 

Above all merchandise ? 

Then bread upon thy waters cast 

Shall not be cast in vain ; 
But after many days are past, 

It shall be found again. 
Then thy barbaric sons shall sue, 

Nor nature's self resist, 
An entrance for their kindred true, 

The dark evangelist. 




fte® 



SOUTH-SEA MISSIONARIES. 

SUGGESTED BY A PASSAGE IN STEWAKT'S JOURNAL. 

With pleasure not unmixed with pain, 

They find their passage o'er, 
As, with the Sabbath's dawn, they gain 

That islet's rocky shore ; 
Behind them is the sweltering main, 

The torrid land before. 



No sound was in the silence heard 

To break the air of balm, 
Save when the screaming tropic bird 

Wheeled seaward in the calm ; 
The faint and heated breeze scarce stirred 

The streamers of the palm. 

61 



62 SOUTH-SEA MISSIONARIES. 

The shipman in the distance sees, 

Across the glowing bay, 
The crowded, straw-built cottages, 

Like sunburnt ricks of hay, 
Beneath the tall banana-trees, 

Bask in the morning ray. 

And as that self-devoted band 
Of Christian hearts drew near, 

No cool and bracing current fanned 
The lifeless atmosphere. 

Why should they seek that savage land, 
So desolate and drear ? 

In faith, those far-off shores they trod, 

This humble six or seven, 
And through those huts of matted sod 

Shall spread the gospel leaven, 
Till each becomes a house of God, 

A mercy-gate of heaven. 




THE FEAST OF TABEKNACLES. 



Methen t ks there is indeed a feast 

In these inspiring words alone, 
Which could not even be increased 

By music's most enchanting tone. 
My inmost sense they ravish quite 

With scenes and sounds so dear to me, 
They fill my ear, they fill my sight, 

And leave no room for minstrelsy. 

Raise ye who will the spells of power 

In which the sons of song combine : 
To sit and muse some silent hour 

O'er these transporting leaves, be mine ! 
Here pitch my verdant tent ; for here 

He must have felt it good to be, 
Who built these tabernacles dear 

To Faith, and Fame, and Fantasy ! 

63 



THE MEETING OF THE TRIBES. 

ON THE OPENING OF A COUNCIL OF THE CHURCH. 
" For thither the tribes go up." 

The tribes have gone up, not in battle array, 

But to keep on God's mountain their festival day ; 

The tribes have gone up, with their banners dis- 
played, 

In peace, o'er the thousands who meet in their 
shade. 



From the east, from the west, from the south, from 

the north, 
From Dan to Beersheba, their powers have come 

forth ; 
From the wide-spreading valleys their ancients are 

seen, 
And the dwellers on Lebanon's mountains so green, 

64 



MEETING OF THE TRIBES. 65 

And, Juclah, thy lordliest Lion is there, 
Unharmed, from the glorious depths of his lair; 
For the archers have fiercely shot at him in vain, 
And he shakes off their darts, like the dew, from his 
mane. 

In gladness the chosen of Levi pour out, 
And the feeblest starts up at the summons devout ; 
Nor will one of the twelve in their borders abide, 
From the ship-covered coast to the Great River's side. 

May the dew which, like Hermon's, distils from above, 
Sink deep in all hearts, and inspire them with love ; 
And the grace on the head of the aged high-priest a 
Flow down on the greatest, and reach to the least. 

The spirit of peace to their counsels restore, 

O God ! and let Ephraim vex Judah no more ; 

The spirit of might and of wisdom impart, 

Nor let Reuben's divisions cause searching of heart. 

So the least of all seeds shall become a great tree, 
And shall spread from the mountains its boughs to 

the sea, 
Till all the wide land with its shelter is blest, 
From the dawning of day to the uttermost west. 

a Bishop White. 
E 




THE MISSIONARY'S FAREWELL. 



The signal is made from yon mast o'er the trees, 
Which nods to the billows, and beckons the breeze ; 
The anchor 's upheaved, and the sails are unfurled, 
To carry him forth to the ends of the world. 

And now the near headlands already float by, 
And the half-shrouded cottages swim in his eye ; 
And a thousand past joys are recalled by the view, 
Which his bosom can never, O, never renew ! 

At length he puts forth from his own native bay, 
And the bark of his country sweeps southward away ; 
And the heart of the messenger inwardly bleeds, 
As each object grows dim on the shore, and recedes. 

66 



THE MISSIONARY'S FAREWELL. 67 

How can he refrain from the strong burst of tears, 
As the land of his forefathers fast disappears, 
As the mountains and hill-tops grow dusky and dun, 
And turret and spire fade away one by one ! 

But his bosom, alas ! shall more bitterly ache 
O'er the tenderer ties which that parting must break ; 
And the tears will, in spite of his manliness, start, 
As affection's full tide rushes back on his heart. 

But for these though the flesh in its weakness may 

yearn, 
His spirit is willing, he would not return ; 
His orders are onward, 't is his to obey ; 
He dare not decline, and he dare not delay. 

And the day is soon coming those friends to restore, 
Whom he loveth not less, but his Saviour the more, 
When the faithful to death shall receive their re- 
ward, 
And together partake of the joy of their Lord. 

With him, when our own weary voyage is past, 
Be the haven of happiness entered at last, 
In that far better country, undarkened by sin, 
Where the shouts of the ransomed shall welcome 
us in! 



STANZAS. 

Yon distant tower of old gray stone, 

The verdure of the trees, 
The golden sunlight o'er them thrown, — 

What fairer scene than these ? 
The organ and the Sabbath bell, 

Blent like the far-off sea, — 
What tones the raptured heart can swell 

Up to such ecstasy ? 

To human sympathies the sight 

Is dearer far within, 
When all, on bended knees, unite 

In penitence for sin ; 
And heavenlier far the thoughts they raise, 

When human voices there 
Swell high the glorious tide of praise, 

Or breathe the contrite prayer. 






THE ORDINAL. 



Alas for me could I forget 

The memory of that day 
Which fills my waking thoughts, nor yet 

E'en sleep can take away ; 
In dreams I still renew the rites 

Whose strong but mystic chain 
The spirit to its God unites, 

And none can part again. 



How oft the Bishop's form I see, 

And hear that thrilling tone, 
Demanding, with authority, 

The heart for God alone ! 
Again I kneel as then I knelt, 

While he above me stands, 
And seem to feel as then I felt 

The pressure of his hands. 

69 



70 THE ORDINAL. 

Again the priests in meek array, 

As my weak spirit fails, 
Beside me bend them down to pray 

Before the chancel rails ; 
As then the sacramental host 

Of God's elect are by, 
When many a voice its utterance lost, 

And tears dimmed many an eye. 

As then they on my vision rose, 

The vaulted aisles I see, 
And desk and cushioned book repose 

In solemn sanctity ; 
The mitre o'er the marble niche, 

The broken crook and key, 
That from a Bishop's tomb shone rich 

With polished tracery ; 

The hangings, the baptismal font, — ■ 

All, all, save me, unchanged, — 
The holy table, as was wont, 

With decency arranged ; 
The linen cloth, — the plate, the cup, 

Beneath their covering shine, 
Ere priestly hands are lifted up 

To bless the bread and wine. 



THE ORDINAL, 71 

The solemn ceremonial past, 

And I am set apart 
To serve the Lord, from first to last, 

With undivided heart : 
And I have sworn, with pledges dire, 

Which God and man have heard, 
To speak the holy truth entire 

In action and in word ! 



O Thou, who in Thy holy place 

Hast set Thine orders three, 
Grant me, Thy meanest servant, grace 

To win a good degree ; 
That so, replenished from above, 

And in mine office tried, 
Thou mayst be honoured, and in love 

Thy Church be edified. 




RECOLLECTIONS OF ST. PAUL'S DAY. 

" At mid-day, king, I saw in the way a light from heaven, 
above the brightness of the sun, shining round about me and 
them which journeyed with me. Whereupon, King Agrippa, 
I was not disobedient unto the heavenly vision." 

How swift the years have come and gone, since, on 

this blessed day, 
A victim at the altar's horn, I gave myself away ; 
And, streaming through the house of God, a glory 

seemed to shine, 
Invisible to other eyes, but manifest to mine. 



It was not in his terrours clad, nor with those to- 
kens dire, 

The rushing of the whirlwind's wing, the earth- 
quake, and the fire, 

Nor yet amid the blasting blaze that makes the 
sunshine dim, 

And pales the ineffectual beams that minister to 
Him: 

72 



-ST. PAUL'S DAY. 73 

Serene was that effulgent noon, and gladdening 

was the ray, 
Which made a heavenly vision there I could not 

disobey ; 
And gentle those subduing tones which soothed 

and tempered all, 
As with the holy harmony of voices still and small. 

father, mother, brethren, friends, no less than 

brethren dear ! 
Who promised, at this solemn hour, to be in spirit 

near, 
Say, is it not your influence in blended prayer I 

feel, 
As now before the mercy-seat from many shrines 

we kneel ? 

1 would my heart might ever thus dissolve with fer- 

vent heat, 
As here, fast by the oracle , the service I repeat ; 
That even in my inmost soul the same rejoicing 

light 
Might burn, like Zion's altar flame, unquenchable 

and bright. 



"^^S" 



CHRIST CHURCH, BOSTON. 

" I know thy works, and where thou dwellest, even where Sa- 
tan's seat is ; and thou holdest fast thy name, and hast not denied 
my faith." 

Not for thy pomp and pride of place, 

Not for thy relics rare 
Of kings, and ministers of grace, 

Whose names thy vessels bear ; 
Not for thy boast of high degree, 

Nor charms of gorgeous style, 
Hast thou been ever dear to me, 

O thou time-honoured pile ! 



But for thy constant truth, which still 

Preserves, from age to age 
Unmoved, through good report and ill, 

The Fathers' heritage ; 
Which firmly as the hills remains, 

As years have o'er thee swept, 
And singly, 'mid apostate fanes, 

The ancient faith has kept. 

74 



CHRIST CHURCH, BOSTON. 75 

For sixscore years thy lofty vaults 

With those ascriptions ring, 
Which lift the soul, while it exalts 

The Christ, of Glory King. 
And well might walls, so taught, cry out, 

If human lips were dumb, 
And aisles spontaneous swell the shout 

Until the Bridegroom come. 

For this, how oft my spirit longs 

To tread thy courts ! How stirs 
My inmost heart to join thy throngs 

Of earnest worshippers ! 
For this, how oft, on bended knee, 

I ask, dear Church, to see 
No drought on others' husbandry, 

But much of dew on thee ! 

Though many have afflicted thee, 

And all thy ways despise, 
And turn, with gayer company, , 

To where new shrines arise, 
Here let thy children keep their feet, 

And do not yet despair 
That they who scorn thee yet may meet 

Before thy shrine in prayer. 



76 



CHRIST CHURCH, BOSTON. 



Though cheerless to the eye of sense. 

A land that none pass through, 
Eternal is thine excellence, 

Which shall be brought to view. 
And on thy gates the stranger's son 

Shall, in God's time, record, 
" The Zion of the Holy One, 

The City of the Lord!" 



034 




CHRIST CHURCH. 

Here, brother, let us pause awhile, 

And in this quiet chancel muse 
On vanished friends who thronged each aisle, 

And crowded these deserted pews ; — 
To whom I broke the bread of life, 

And poured the mystic cup of grace, 
And hoped, when past this mortal strife, 

To share with them our Lord's embrace. 

Full are the tombs o'er which we tread ; 

And, with o'erwhelming sense of awe, 
I summon back the holy dead 

Whom once around these rails I saw. 
And how much nearer, at this hour, 

Their unseen presence than we know ! 
This is a thought of thrilling power : 

O, speak with reverent voice, — speak low ! 

77 



78 CHRIST CHURCH. 

How oft, at dead of night, when sleep 

In heaviest folds wrapped all around, 
I Ve come, my vigil here to keep, 

And sighed to hear some human sound ! 
Alone, amid the scene of gloom, 

I've watched for dawn, and felt oppressed 
To know, that, in the lofty room, 

I was the only living guest. 

The ticking of yon ancient clock, 

That marks the solemn tread of Time, 
Against my heart-strings seemed to knock ; 

And, hark ! those Christmas bells sublime ! 
So have they rung a hundred years, 

And on the ears that heard them first 
The chiming of the starry spheres 

With their enrapturing tones has burst. 





A CHRISTMAS EVENING PASTORAL. 



11 Ye shall have a song as in the night when a holy solemnity is 
kept." — Isaiah. 



My own dear Church, how can I choose 

But turn, in spirit, back to thee, 
As on this hallowed night I lose 

Myself in pensive revery ? 
For in thy courts a single day 

'T is good, if but in thought, to dwell ; 
Nor may I tear my heart away 

From all that it has loved so well. 



How sweet to hear at eventide 
The pealing of thy silver chime, 

In tuneful changes, far and wide, 
Give note of coming Christmas-time ! 

79 



80 CHRISTMAS EVENING PASTORAL. 

How richly through the wintry sky 
It floats ! as if the heavenly train 

Sang, " Glory be to God on high, 
And peace to peaceful men ! " again. 

While thus the vocal heavens invite, 

And bells ring out in angel-tone, 
To Bethlehem let us haste to-night, 

And see the wonders there made known. 
Thy radiant courts are all ablaze, 

And brilliant is the festive scene, 
As when rose on the prophet's gaze 

Fair Canaan, dressed in living green. 

The wreaths in loftiest arches tied, 

The boughs in each deep window spread, 
The festoons swung from side to side, 

The columns twined and garlanded, 
The leafy cross, which venturous arm 

Has dared to hang the chancel o'er, 
Give all the shady lodge a charm 

That never met the eye before. 

Thus, verdant as a sylvan tent, 

Thine old age puts its greenness on ; 

Thy bowery aisles all redolent 
With goodliest smell of Lebanon. 



CHRISTMAS EVENING PASTORAL. 81 

How fresh the branches stand, and thick ! 

With what a dazzling light, and clear, 
Like Aaron's golden candlestick, 

Gleams out each ancient chandelier ! 

And he who looks above the crowd 

May almost see, in vision, swim 
Beneath the cornice, veiled in cloud, 

The mystic shapes of cherubim ; 
Now, listening to the grateful strain, 

Each in his angle seems to rest, 
With twain unfolded wings, and twain 

Spread crosswise on his raptured breast. 

And now a joyous echo rings, 

And seems the whole angelic row, 
That o'er the rood-loft poise their wings, 

Their loud, uplifted trumps to blow ; 
And quivering now through wavy trees, 

And throbbing breasts, (with thrilling sound 
Of solemn pastoral symphonies,) 

A glory truly shines around ; — 

It shines on robes without alloy, 

On priestly vestment, pure and white, 

And on the shepherd's head whose joy 
It is to watch his flock by night. 

F 



82 CHRISTMAS EVENING PASTORAL. 

It brightest shines where hearts once cold 
Are kindling with the truths revealed, 

And, like the faithful swains of old, 

Beneath their gladdening influence yield. 

Thrice blest, who thus the night prolong, 

Who soar on each inspiring tune, 
And emulate the shining throng 

That pass away to heaven too soon ! 
Thrice blest, who, as the years roll by, 

More fondly treasure up the word, 
And God their Saviour glorify 

For all that they have seen and heard ! 

Though many a friend is dead and gone, 

Though many a sainted face we miss, 
Long may thy tuneful peal ring on, 

That calls, dear Church, to feasts like this ! 
For whence could joy and comfort flow 

To aching hearts that bleed for them, 
But for His grace, whose reign below 

Began this night in Bethlehem ? 




ST. JOHN BAPTIST'S DAY. 

It was a solemn day to me, 

This twenty-fourth of June, 
Eleven years ago ; alas 

That they have passed so soon ! 
And often as it comes about, 

I meditate thereon, 
And strive to follow, as I may, 

Christ's herald, good St. John. 



It was a solemn place to me, 

That sanctuary old, 
Where still we, after sixscore years, 

The same high service hold. 
And still 't is good, amid the change 

That sweeps o'er all beside, 
To know that, while these walls shall stand, 

That service shall abide. 

83 



84 ST JOHN BAPTISTS DAY. 

How many who were present then 

Sleep in their tombs below ! 
How many to their distant posts 

Have gone, as I now go ! 
Of all the crowds that then were here, 

How few are left behind ! 
And of that few, how fewer still 

Who call that scene to mind. 



To me it is as yesterday ; 

I see the whole proceed, — 
The bishop, and the brethren round, 

Who came to bid God-speed ! 
The holy altar, then withdrawn 

Deep in its own recess, 
Ere desk and pulpit crowded in, 

To make its honours less. 



O, it was not in mockery 

That then I offered there, 
In weakness, fear, and trembling tones, 

The Institution-prayer. 
How often, as I 've paced those aisles 

At sacred hours alone, 
Have I recited o'er that prayer, 

To God is truly known ! 



ST. JOHN BAPTIST'S DAY. 85 

How little thought the warden gray- 
That aught but death the keys 

Surrendered by his faithful hand 
Should ever wrest from these, — 

That e'er this ancient fold should count 
Their broken pledge no sin, 

Or part, for trifling cause, the bonds 
Of God's own discipline ! 

Dear Church ! as now that tender charge 

I solemnly resign, 
Some bleeding hearts will testify 

The fault has not been mine ! 
For who could hear thy heavenly chime 

With gladder heart than I ? 
Who love thee with a fonder love, 

Or in thy service die ? 

God raise thee up some faithful man, 

More prompt to follow on, 
In doctrine and in holy life, 

Christ's herald, good St. John ! 
Give him all boldness to rebuke, 

And skill thy griefs to cure, 
And, for his heavenly Master's sake, 

All patience to endure ! 



FROM THE ANTIQUE. 

" Fons Cruris, Fons Lucis." 
BY THE NAME OF CEOSSE-WELLE. 

Welle of the Crosse ! would I might be 
In spirit, as in name, like thee, 

Whose gentle flow from Calvarie's mount 

Covers the nations like a sea, 
Drowns in its depths the Egerian fount, 
And older wave of Castalie. 



Welle of the Crosse ! would that my name 
Were emblem of my being's aim, 
Upon whose face, in tranquil rest, 

The purest hues of heaven might glow, 
And through its deep, transparent breast, 
Fair truth be seen far down below. 

86 



FROM THE ANTIQUE. 87 

Welle of the Crosse ! would that I might 
Thy glorie with thy name unite : 

That, cleansed by thee from every stain, 

My soul might gladly count but loss 
All worldly thought, all worldly gain, 
To bear the burden of the Cross. 

O yes, for thee, Welle of the Crosse ! 
Fain would I count all gain but loss ; 
For thee fain would I live and die, 
Nor covet ease, nor toil decline, 
So I all sin might crucify, 

So I but conquer in that sign ! a 

a In hoc signo vinces. — Constantine's Vision* 



TO MY FATHER. 

My father, I recall the dream 

Of childish joy and wonder, 
When thou wast young as I now seem, 

Say, thirty-three, or under ; 
When on thy temples, as on mine, 

Time just began to sprinkle 
His first gray hairs, and traced the sign 

Of many a coming wrinkle. 

I recognize thy voice's tone 

As to myself I'm talking ; 
And this firm tread, how like thine own, 

In thought, the study walking ! 
As, musing, to and fro I pass, 

A glance across my shoulder 
Would bring thine image in the glass, 

Were it a trifle older. 

88 



TO MY FATHER. 89 

My father, proud am I to bear 

Thy face, thy form, thy stature, 
But happier far might I but share 

More of thy better nature, — 
Thy patient progress after good, 

All obstacles disdaining, 
Thy courage, faith, and fortitude, 

And spirit uncomplaining. 

Then for the day that I was born 

Well might I joy, and borrow 
No longer of the coming morn 

Its trouble or its sorrow ; 
Content I 'd be to take my chance 

In either world, possessing 
For my complete inheritance 

Thy virtues and thy blessing ! 








TO MY MOTHER. 

My mother ! many a burning word 

Would not suffice the love to tell 
With which my inmost soul is stirred, 

As thoughts of thee my bosom swell : 
But better I should ill express 

The passion thus, than leave untold 
The glow of filial tenderness 

Which never in my heart grows cold. 



Oft, as I muse o'er all the wrong, 

The silent grief, the secret pain, 
My froward youth has caused, I long 

To live my childhood o'er again ; 
And yet they were not all in vain, 

The lessons which thy love then taught ; 
Nor always has it dormant lain, 

The fire from thy example caught. 

90 



TO 3IY MOTHER. 91 

And now, as feelings all divine 

With deepest power mv spirit touch, 
I feel as if some prayer of thine, 

My mother ! were availing much. 
And thus availing, more and more, 

O, be it thine, in bliss, to see 
The hopes with which thy heart runs o'er, 

In fondest hour, fulfilled in me ! 









&Qcr 



EPITHALAMIUM. 

Methln t ks those joyous bells will ring 

In my rapt ear with holiest power, 
When I within that shrine shall bring 

The offering of my nuptial hour ; 
And I shall feel the debt I owe 

For all the past of hope and love, 
Dear Church, that gives so much below, 

In pledge of more reserved above ! 



Though brief the time in service spent, 

How long and dear its ties shall be ! 
As precious and as permanent 

As numbers of eternity : 
For though no bridal bond be theirs 

Who in the resurrection rise, 
Yet from their graves all holy pairs 

Pass to their union in the skies. 

92 



EPITHALAMIUM. 93 

0, may that worthiness be mine, 

To walk hereafter by her side 
O'er whom I joy, in rites divine, 

As joys the bridegroom o'er the bride. 
Together may we join the throng 

Who follow at their Saviour's call, 
And celebrate in mystic song 

The heavenly marriage festival ! 




A DAUGHTER'S PORTION. 

God, who on our household 
Thus far hast fondly smiled, 

1 thank thee for thy choicest boon, - 

My precious, only child. 
And pray thee that the favour 

Which has so richly blest 
Her sunny days of infancy, 

May shine on all the rest. 



I have not asked for beauty, 

Fair cheek, or golden tress ; 
Though all that is within me melts 

At woman's loveliness. 
I have not asked for riches, 

Nor even wealth of mind ; 
Though doting on intelligence, 

Pure, lofty, and refined : 

94 



A DAUGHTER'S PORTION. 95 

Those better gifts I covet, 

Which thou dost bid us seek, — 
A soul serene, affectionate, 

And resolute, yet meek. 
The meetness of the children 

Who shared our Lord's caress, 
And whose surpassing excellence 

Is early holiness. 

O, might she thus resemble 

That late departed saint, 
Who, worthy of Madonna's name, 

I may not dare to paint ! 
Or catch the falling glories 

Throned on that aged brow, 
Which, in the multitude of peace, 

Has passed from us but now ! 

Fain would I ask, as o'er me 

That raptured image swims, 
All ready with the seraph choirs 

To join the heavenly hymns, 
That her unearthly comforts, 

And looks, divinely mild, 
Might, by some secret sympathy, 

Inspire my gracious child. 



96 



A DAUGHTERS PORTION. 



While thus, dear Lord, my musings 

Have blent, in tender ties, 
The child, and aged childlike friend, 

Whom tears shall canonize, 
May the hope that both are living, 

And rejoicing in thy smile, 
Cheer the lonely dwelling-places 

Which each has left awhile. 




TO 



Fair child ! thou fillest mine eye with tears, 

For thou earnest back my mind 
To the sinless days which the flight of years 

Has left so far behind ; 
And I search my shrinking self to know 

How the spirit, so darkened now, 
Can be purged of its manhood's guilt and woe, 

And be pure once more as thou. 



Again, thou earnest on my thought 

To the vision of things before, 
When the last great battle with sin is fought, 

And the struggle f death is o'er : 
For in vain our Heaven we hope to see, 

And our Saviour undefiled, 
Till we learn His lesson of such as thee, 

And become like a little child ! 

G 97 



TO MY SISTER. 

How like, alas ! in their estate 

Are home and heart ! the one 
Is left unto thee desolate, 

Its thousand ties undone ; 
The other, as the winds go by, 

Sore charged with storm and rain, 
Hear in their sound the dismal cry, 

" When shall we meet again ? " 



But hush, fond heart ! there is a home 

Not made by hand of clay, 
Where change and chance shall never come, 

In heaven's eternal day. 
For that loved rest thyself prepare 

By deeds of holy strain, 
Till, in the many mansions there, 

We meet, nor part again. 



LONELINESS. 



TO G. W. D. 



I miss thee at the morning tide, 

The glorious hour of prime ; 
I miss thee more when day has died, 

At blessed evening-time. 
As slide the aching hours away, 

Still art thou unforgot ; 
Sleeping or waking, night and day, 

When do I miss thee not ? 



How can I pass that gladsome door, 

Where every favourite room 
Thy presence made so bright before 

Is loneliness and gloom ? 
Each place where most thou lov'dst to be, 

Thy home, thy house of prayer, 
Seem yearning for thy company : 

I miss thee everywhere. 

99 



TO A FEIEND 

WHO SENT ME A WATCH-CASE AND A THERMOMETER. 

How much, Time ! at every beat 

My faithful watch has said 
Of thiue unseen yet quick retreat, 

Thy never-ceasing tread ! 
And friends have given me, day by day, 

A clearer power to see 
How fast thy circles wear away 

Into Eternity. 



But howsoever times may range, 

Let not this token be 
A type of like mercurial change 

Between my friends and me. 
Howe'er the quickened silver mount, 

Or shrink into the ball, 
Be our dilated hearts unwont 

To either rise or fall. 
100 



THE NAME OF MARY. 

WRITTEN IN A BIBLE. 

Who sees, where in the sacred leaves 

The name of some dear friend 
Its tribute at God's hand receives, 

And saintliest lips commend, 
And prays not that the Book may bear 

For Tier that witness true ; 
That all the hallowed name who share 

May be like-minded too ? 



Wouldst have thy name in heaven's own page, 

With heaven's own colours writ ? 
Learn, in thy green, unsaddened age, 

At Jesus' feet to sit ; 
By faith unfeigned, and holy love, 

And penitential prayer, 
'Tis graven in the Book above, 

And kept unfading there. 
101 






TO * * * #. 

Lady ! to whom belong 

The will and power to roll 
The tide of music and of song 

That overflow the soul, 
The stream has passed away, 

But left a glittering store, 
Deposited in rich array 

On memory's silent shore, — 

A strand of precious things, 

Where in confusion lie 
The wrecks of high imaginings 

And thoughts that cannot die. 
O for that voice alone, 

Whose full, refreshing flow 
Could on the troubled soul its own 

Serenity bestow ! 
102 



TO * * * *. 103 

Why should those streams be mute 

Which brighten as they roll, 
Nor in their liquid lapse pollute, 

But beautify the soul ? 
O, tranquillize, refine 

The heart, till it shall be, 
As in its primal day, divine, 

And full of Deity ! 






STANZAS, 

ON THE DEATH OF AN AGED SERVANT OF GOD. 



"Fortunate Senex." 

I was in spirit with the crowd 

Who stood around thy bier, 
When grief, though deep, was yet not loud, 

As each in turn drew near, 
And, mutely bending, o'er and o'er 

Fond kindred lips were pressed 
Upon thy placid brow, before 

They laid thee to thy rest. 

No stain upon thy clear renown, 

Descended from the brave, 
Brought thy gray hairs with sorrow down, 

Tried veteran ! to the grave ; 
We saw thee hastening, calm and sage, 

On to thy perfect day, 
And, in thy green and good old age, 

Serenely fade away. 

104 



STANZAS. 105 

Peace to thy patriarchal dust ! 

From yon old solemn shrine 
Breaks forth a tone of loftiest trust 

That better things are thine ; 
Thy light shone ever there to bless, 

And on thy hoary head, 
Found in the way of righteousness, 

A crown of glory shed. 

Nursed in her aisles, and truly taught 

By her to live and die, 
Our grief finds refuge in the thought 

That there thou still art nigh ; 
It treasures there a precious store 

For sweet and soothing calm, 
To read thy favourite prayers, and pour 

The same victorious psalm. 

Thus shall thy memory be a spell 

Of strong but silent power, 
Within the church thou lov'dst so well, 

And round thy household bower ; 
Yea, every spot is sanctified, 

Amid this vale of tears, 
Where thou, for heaven, hast laid aside 

The burden of thy years. 






IN MEMORY OF D. W. 

Heu ! Quanto minus est cum reliquis yersari quam tui memi- 



Once how my exiled schoolboy heart 

Would with impatience yearn 
For those dear vernal holidays 

When I might homeward turn ! 
And, haven where I would be then, 

How fondly would I say, 
Thou wert too fair to look upon, 

Save on such holiday ! a 

And still thy bowers are beautiful, 

Thy walks are fair to see, 
But time and troublous thoughts have worked 

A dreary change in me ; 

a " When I sat last on this primrose bank, and looked down 
these meadows, I thought of them as Charles the Emperor did 
of the city of Florence, — that they were too pleasant to be 
looked on, but only on holidays." — Walton. 

106 



IN MEMORY OF D. W. 107 

And year by year thy loveliness 

Has on my sense grown dim, 
Till thou hast scarce a charm unbroke, 

Since thou art spoiled of him. 

A grief for which all words are weak 

Has pierced me to the quick, 
Xor dare I trust myself to speak 

The thoughts that crowd so thick ; 
I yield me to the consciousness 

Which death and sorrow bring, 
That all of earth we dote upon 

Hath no continuing. 



*m0® 




TO MY NAMESAKE, 

ON HIS BAPTISM. 



u Formose Puer." 

Childe William, I have little skill, 

But much of heart and hope, 
To clear from every sign of ill 

Thy happy horoscope. 
The occult gift is hid from me, 

Nor may my art divine 
Thy life's unfolded destiny 

From this sweet palm of thine. 

But in thy mother's tender love, 
Thy father's anxious care, 

And, more, the answer from above 
To our baptismal prayer, — 

108 



TO MY NAMESAKE. 109 

In these a hallowed influence dwells, 

A charm that 's heavenlier far 
Than might of planetary spells, 

Or culminating star. 

The power of holiest rites, fair boy, 

The tears that oft will wet 
Thy forehead from excess of joy, — 

These be thy amulet ! 
On these auspicious prospects rest, 

These figure out thy fate ; 
How can they fail to make thee blest, — 

Blest, if not fortunate ? 

A childless man, well may I deem 

Thy name my highest pride, 
Rich in thy parents' dear esteem, 

Though poor in all beside ; 
Well may my heart with gladness ache, 

Flower of a noble stem. 
If one will love thee for my sake, 

As I have honoured them. 



TO A FRIEND. 

EMBARKING IN A SHIP NAMED "THE nEBER." 

All gentle gales, 

Serene and smiling skies, thy course attend ; 
The winds of God and goodness till thy sails, 
My faithful friend. 

And if the trust 
Be not in vain, that Heaven does still assign 
Oar guardians from the spirits of the just. 

Be lleber's thine ! 



And when t is o'er. 
The stormy passage of our life, may we 
Meet in that world where he has gone before, 

Without a sea. 
no 







TO MY GODSOX : 

WILLIAM CROSWELL DOAXE. 

It seems, dear boy, hut yesterday, 

Since to the font we came, 
A happy and delighted throng, 

To answer in thy name : 
And I, thy father's chosen friend, 

Joyed o'er thy father's son, 
To hear the priestly blessing blend 

Our names, allied in one. 

But ah ! how cloud has followed cloud ! 

How many a thrilling scene, 
What trials and what triumphs, crowd 

The narrow space between ! 
And we are sundered far and wide, 

Who framed in happier hour 
The ties which time shall not divide, 

Nor death shall overpower. 
111 



112 



TO MY GODSON. 



Let not thine eye to me be strange, 

Whose smile has been so sweet, 
And I can bear what other change 

Awaits us ere we meet. 
And sure the love which thus begun 

Must bind us to the end, 
And never can thy father's son 

Forget thy father's friend. 




^a 



^m^^^^ww^w^^^^w^^^^w^w^^^^ 



LAMENT. 

ON THE DEATH OF A PASTOR. 

My brother, I have read 
Of holy men, in Christ who fell asleep, 
For whom no bitter tears of woe were shed, — 

I could not weep ! 

And thou thyself art one, 
O man of loves, and truth without alloy ! 
The Master calleth, and, thy work well done, 

Enter thy joy ! 

To such as thee belong 
The harmonies in which all heaven unite, 
To share the inexpressive nuptial song, 

And walk in white ! 

II 113 



114 ON THE DEATH OF A PASTOR. 

But O thy Church ! thy home ! 
Thy widowed home ! — who shall forbid to grieve ? 
How may they bear the desolating gloom 

Such partings leave ? 

Great Shepherd of the flock ! 
E'en Thou, whose life was given for the sheep, 
Sustain them in the overwhelming shock, 

And safely keep ! 



om 




TO THE 
KEY. THOMAS WINTHROP COIT, D.D. 

ON HIS ACCEPTANCE OF A POST OF DUTY IN THE WEST. 

With hope and courage unrepressed, 

Go, follow where the orb of day 
And Empire's Star, both tending west, 

Have pointed out thy brightening way ; 
And from our dwellings by the sea, 

Beyond the mountain barriers bear 
The bonds which sacred sympathy 

Hath sanctified by many a prayer. 

And when thy steps are safely led 
By mighty marge of rivers wide, 

Which, like an earth-born giant, spread a 
Their thirsty arms on every side, 



a " And Trent, like an earth-born giant, spreads 
His thirsty arms along th' indented meads." 

Milton, Vacation Exercise. 
115 



116 TO REV. THOMAS W. COIT, D. D. 



O, let their waters, as they glide 
Resistless on, thine emblem be, — 

A stream of many thousand tides 
Against the Truth's great enemy. 



^ 






ELEGIAC. 

ON THE DEATH OF THE KEY. B. D. WPNSLOW. 

In silence I have wept for thee, and with a grief 
sincere, 

And conscious, dearest Benjamin, that love was in 
arrear, 

But shrinking still, lest in thy praise I should my- 
self commend, 

So high in merit thou, and I so very dear a friend. 

Else I had earlier witness borne, how, watching by 

thy side, 
When thou the hour of thy release didst patiently 

abide, 
At midnight, as the taper's light began like thee to 

wane, 
Thou poured st in my ravished ear thy last and 

swan-like strain. 

117 



118 ELEGIAC. 

Like Baruch, when the prophet's lips glowed with 
unearthly fires, 

I noted down the soothing words which peace divine 
inspires, 

Preserving since, with hallowed care, thy oft-repeat- 
ed lay, 

So soon to prove its moral true, — " This, too, 
shall pass away ! " 

We prayed and parted, when the dawn began too 

soon to break, 
And dear the book thou gavest me, to cherish for 

thy sake, 
And dearer still the pencilled words, the last I saw 

thee write, 
In token of the Master's grace, who giveth songs 

by night ! 

The vows thy youth had registered, ere yet it lost 

its dew, 
Here, in my life's meridian day, I solemnly renew ; 
And when, though following far behind, I 've run 

my weary race, 
May I, with thee, in better worlds, share in our 

Lord's embrace. 






BISHOP WHITE. 



Clarum et venerabile nomen. 



It was a consecrated place, 

And thought still lingers there, 
Where first I saw thee face to face, 

And heard thy voice in prayer ; 
Though thousands thronged each long-drawn aisle, 

I dwelt upon thy mien, 
As though alone it filled the pile, 

So saintly and serene. 



And there, arrayed on either hand, 

A goodly sight to see, 
Rose up our apostolic band, 

A glorious company. 
And still I deem that hour most blest 

When round the shrine they stood, 
With thee, the father of the rest, 

A holy brotherhood. 

119 



120 BISHOP WHITE. 

Age had forborne thy frame to bow ; 

Thine eye, without eclipse, 
Seemed ready, like thy reverend brow, 

For heaven's apocalypse ; 
And well the thought that o'er thee stole 

Might be of triumph high, 
Like those which swelled the patriarch's soul 

When he desired to die. 

For lo ! the vine thy hand did plant 

Extends its grateful shade, 
Where every tired inhabitant 

May sit, nor be afraid ; 
Its fair succession spreads apace, 

Till scarce the land has room, 
Foretold, like Banquo's kingly race, 

To stretch till crack of doom. 

O, may thy light, which lingers yet, 

Long to our wishes fond, 
Give promise, by its glorious set, 

Of better things beyond : 
A happy fate, old man, be thine, 

Deserving of thy fame, 
And robes reserved in worlds divine, 

As pure as thine own name ! 






BISHOP GRISWOLD'S MEMORIAL. 

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HIS DEATH, FEBRUARY 15, 1844. 

" As Elisha witnessed the translation of Elijah, so we could hard- 
ly hope anything better for his successor than that the mantle of 
this our father in Israel might rest upon him." — TV. C. 

" I was present, with several of the clergy, about ten minutes 
after his death, which, as you know, took place in Bishop East- 
burn's study. It was a scene long to be remembered. There lay 
the good old man, extended at full length on the floor, more ma- 
jestic and commanding of presence in death than I had ever 
beheld him in life. His silver hairs spread a kind of halo round 
his head, and, his blue cloak wrapped gracefully round his limbs, 
with his arms crossed on his bosom, he looked like a Christian 
'warrior taking his rest.' " — Letter from Rev. J. L. Watson. 

The funeral year has through its circle run. 

And Memory's spells the solemn scene renew, 
When, like Elijah, thy good mission done, 
Leaving thy mantle with thy chosen one, a 
Thy sainted spirit to its source withdrew ; 

a His successor. 
121 



122 BISHOP GRISWOLD'S MEMORIAL. 

And Reverence still, in many a prophet's son, 

To Bethel comes, and stands afar to view, 
And prays that he on whom thy titles rest 
May be both with thy robe and with thy spirit blest. 



Methinks I see thee, as I oft have seen 
In other days, so chastened and resigned, 

Serving the Lord, as with a prophet's mien, 
Or Paul's, in all humility of mind. 

I see thy trials on thy faded cheek, 

But thine endurance in thy brow serene, 

Thy look elate, but yet subdued and meek, 
Thy seraph smile, and sweet unconscious air 
That threw a glory round thine apostolic chair. 



Long had I loved thee with a filial heart, 

And mourn thee with a deep and sorrowing 
love, — 

Thrice happy, might I hope to bear a part 
In the same mansions of the house above. 

May I be with thee, where thy lot shall be, 
And grow more like thee, in thy simple guise, 

Thy unaffected truth's sincerity, 

And all that made so lovely in our eyes 
The quiet, childlike heart, which God doth highly 
prize. 



BISHOP GRISWOLUS MEMORIAL. 123 

Father, whose life was thus devoid of pride, 

Thus lowly wise, on winning souls intent, 
Let not thy ransomed spirit now be tried, 
Among the myriads of the glorified, 

By any pledge of love on thee misspent. 

Thou wouldst not ask a costly monument, 
Nor joy to see the storied rock assume 

Thy living shape ; or sculptured figures, bent 
In mimic sorrow o 'er a garnished tomb, 
Enshrine thy place of rest amid the minster's gloom. 

But rather, as on earth thou oft hast prayed, 

Wouldst pray, that all who loved thee, far or 
nigh, — 
Priest, Levite, elder, matron, youth, and maid, 
On whom thy hands in solemn rites were laid, — 

Might grow in every grace as years went by, 
And, stirring up the gift through thee conveyed, 

Have their blest record with thine own on hiorh : 
And, walking in the steps which thou hast trod, 
Be thy memorial dear, alike to man and God. 



LINES 

WRITTEN IN THE CHAMBER WHERE BISHOP HOBART 
DEED, ON THE TENTH ANNIVERSARY. 

Our house, whereon dark clouds have lowered, 

Is once more desolate, 
And hushed the solemn chamber where 

The good man met his fate. 
Pass lightly up the echoing stairs, 

And look in silence round, 
And take thy shoes from off thy feet, 

For this is holy ground. 



Here stood, ere while, his dying couch, 

Against this crimsoned wall, 
Where, quivering through the locust-leaves, 

The setting sunbeams fall. 
Here last he saw yon glorious orb, 

Like his, descending low, 
And through the casement pour, as now, 

That rich autumnal glow. 

124 



LINES. 125 

But dwell not on the painful scene, 

Nor, rapt in vision, muse, 
Till in the sadness of the past 

The present good we lose. 
No sun could make more golden set, 

Nor leave a track more bright, 
Than his, whose radiant memory still 

Fills all our courts with light. 

Look earthward forth, and see, fast by 

The oracle of God, 
And mark the well-worn churchyard path, 

The last his footsteps trod. 
Pass through the Gothic porch, and view 

The chancel's choicest trust, 
Where all but speaks, in lifelike grace, 

His monumental bust. 



The pilgrim at Iona's shrine 

Forgets his journey's toil, 
As faith rekindles in his breast 

On that inspiring soil ; 
And those who trace in Heber's steps 

Carnatic wood and wave, 
A portion of his spirit seek 

By their apostle's grave. 



126 LINES. 

And here our prophet's sons shall oft 

Their father's ear recall, 
And here on each successor's head 

His reverend mantle fall. 
" Here may they hope to fill the breach, 

Like him the plague to stay, 
While in his thrilling tones they preach, 

And with his fervour pray." 

Thus, Auburn, shall thy hallowed haunts 

Be sought from age to age, 
And hither sons of holy Church 

Make pious pilgrimage. 
And though some bitter memories 

Must dash the past with pain, 
Sweet village, thou shalt ever be 

The loveliest of the plain ! 











MEMORIAL 



OF MY BELOVED FRIEXD AXD PREDECESSOR, THE REV. 
WILLIAM LLCAS. 



Three years ago, dear friend, to-day, 
Thy chastened spirit passed away ; 

And, musing in the room, 
The last thy earthly footsteps trod, 
In walk, like Enoch, close with God, 

Light kindles up the gloom. 



In all thy steps thus may I tread, 
And feed the flock as thou hast fed, 

And make my lot my choice, 
Till, reaping where thou well hast sown, 
At harvest home, before the throne, 

I may with thee rejoice ! 

127 



AD AMICUM. 

Friend of my early youth, 

Whom each succeeding year, 
Disclosing depths of love and truth, 

Has made to me more dear : 
The spell, at length, is burst 

That kept me dumb so long, 
And at my heart, as at the first, 

Old friendship's pulse is strong. 

The scales fall from our eves, 

Nor darkly now we see 
How youngest hearts may realize 

That life is vanity. 
How valueless now seem 

Its passing smiles and tears ! 
Like dreams remembered in a dream 

Its imagery appears. 

128 



AD AMICUM. 129 

O, lovely was the sight, 

When last I saw thy son, 
And hailed the promise with delight 

With which his youth begun. 
It brought to mind the davs 

Of our own golden age, 
Ere yet we took the separate ways 

Of manhood's pilgrimage. 

As in that fairy-land 

Through which we trod when boys, 
Pursuing ever, hand in hand, 

Our studies and our joys, 
We saw him pressing o'er 

The selfsame pleasant road, 
Where we had passed so long before, 

To learning's high abode. 

But ah ! how soon the train 

Of visions melts like foam ! 
We search for that sweet face in vain 

In thy afflicted home. 
How hast thou borne the blow 

By which the wreck was made ? 
And tears that in such anguish flow, 

How shall their course be stayed ? 
I 



130 AD AMICUM. 

I, that did once rejoice 

To be the bridegroom's friend, 
Till I can cheer thee with my voice, 

Some soothing strain would send. 
But who but God can dry 

The fountains of thy grief? 
And when the merry-hearted sigh, 

Who else can give relief? 

O, in this dark eclipse, 

Though all be gloom beneath, 
Me thinks I hear some angel lips 

These words of comfort breathe : 
" Believers, doubt not this, — 

All that God takes, and more, 
In that approaching world of bliss 

He will, through Christ, restore." 




STANZAS 

WRITTEN IN A COPY OF MILTON'S POEMS, 

THE GIFT OF A FRIEND WHO DIED AT SEA. 

Thy cherished gift, departed friend. 

With trembling I unfold, 
And fondly gaze upon its lids, 

In crimson wrought, and gold. 
I open to its dirge-like strain 

On one who died at sea ; 
And as I read of Lycidas, 

I think, the while, of thee. 

Thy languid spirit sought in vain 

The beautiful Azores, 
But, ere it reached the middle main, 

Was rapt to happier shores. 
As in a dream-like, halcyon calm, 

It entered on its rest, 
Amid the groves of Paradise, 

And islands of the blest. 

131 



132 STANZAS. 

Kind friends afar, at thy behest, 

Had fitted bower and hall 
To entertain their kindred guest 

In ever green Fayal. 
In greener bowers thy bed is made, 

And sounder is thy sleep, 
Than ever life had known, among 

The chambers of the deep. 

No mark along the waste may tell 

The place of thy repose ; 
Yet there is One who loved thee well, 

And loved by thee, who knows. 
And though now sunk, like Lycidas, 

Beneath the watery floor, 
Yet His great might that walked the waves 

Shall thy dear form restore. 

Though years must first pass by, no time 

His purpose shall derange, 
And in his guardianship thy soul 

Shall suffer no sea change. 
And when the depths give back their charge, 

O, may our welcome be 
With thine, among Christ's ransomed throngs, 

Where there is no more sea ! 



FRAGMENT. 



Trust me, Cousin Bess, 
Full many a day my memory has played 
The creditor with me on your account, 
And made me shame to think that I should owe 
So long the debt of kindness. But in truth, 
Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear 
So heavy a pack of business, that albeit 
I toil on mainly in one twelve hours' race, 
Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I 
That for a moment you should lay to me 
Unkind neglect. Mine, cousin, is a heart 
That smokes not, yet me thinks there should be 

some 
Who know how warm it beats. I'm no sworn 

friend 
Of half an hour, as apt to leave as love. 

133 



134 FRAGMENT. 

Mine are no mushroom feelings, that spring up 

At once, without a seed, and take no root, 

Wisely distrusted. In a narrow sphere, 

The little circle of domestic life, 

I would be known and loved. The world beyond 

Is not for me. And, Bessy, sure I think 

That you should know me well, for you and I 

Grew up together ; and when we look back 

Upon old times, our recollections paint 

The same familiar faces. 



"VChCV&M^ 




'■^ ^C ~Z~ -Z^ "1^ ""3^ ^fl^ ^S^ ^C^ v -'o N ~' ^-J^ ^-"cS / ^-T- -"- 



TO A CHILD, 

ON HER BHtTHDAY, IN SEPTEMBER. 

Steeped in the soft September light, 

What mellowing hues array 
The forward view ! — so pure and bright 

Be all thy life's long day ; 
A dewy lustre thus be shed, 

A sweet and soothing calm 
Swim in thine eye, and o'er thy head 

Fall on thy soul like balm. 



May Heaven preserve each dainty tress 

From all that would destroy, 
As, in thy playful restlessness, 

They seem to share thy joy; 
Good angels shelter from all ills 

The fast-mat ur in g grace, 
That with a saddening sweetness fills 

Thy penserosa face. 

135 



136 



TO A CHILD. 



Oft as I turn from year to year, 

And days of absence roll, 
I '11 bind thy vision, made more dear 

By memory, to my soul ; 
I '11 pray that he by whom 't is won 

May keep thy minstrel boon, 
A singing heart, in unison 

With every darling tune. 







TO SOPHIA. 

" The fear of the Lord, that is wisdom." 

Such wisdom as thy name implies 

And all who seek may find, 
Be ever honoured in thine eyes, 

And treasured in thy mind ; 
Its glory more than gold or gem 

Thy happy brow shall deck, 
Be on thy head a diadem, 

And pearls about thy neck. 

For they who fear the Lord shall be 

Unto salvation wise ; 
And mighty is the mystery 

Which in that sentence lies ; 
Unmoved by other fear or shame, 

Let but that fear be thine, 
And in the spirit of thy name 

Pursue the life divine. 

137 






TO A LADY, 

WITH A SPRIG OF MYRTLE. 

O, those were happy times, I think, 

When symbolizing leaves 
Conveyed, instead of pen and ink, 

The thoughts that love conceives. 
No soiling, then, of dainty skin : 

Besides, the token sweet 
From each obtruding gaze kept in 

The mystery complete. 

Mere words are all too rude and rough ; 

Nor can the tongue reveal, 
In terms half delicate enough, 

What raptured spirits feel. 
But worlds of tender sentiment 

In one green spire may lie, 
And kindred hearts know more is meant 

Than meets the stranger's eye. 

138 



FOR A CHILD'S ALBUM. 

Dear child of many a hope and prayer, 

Write in this little book 
No thought on which thou wouldst not dare 

To have thy Saviour look. 
On every line, O, may He pour 

Some glimmering of that ray 
Which shineth ever more and more 

Unto the perfect day. 



Thine be a daily growth in grace, 

Whatever else betide, 
In favour with our rescued race, 

And God be on thy side ; 
Thine, too, in holiest purity 

An upward path to trace, 
Till, with thine angel, thou shalt see 

In heaven thy Father's face. 

139 



FRAGMENT. 



ON GIVING THE NAME OF A DEPARTED CHILD TO 
HER NEW-BORN SISTER. 



'T would seem to blot her from her place. 

Though she, to fill one bitter cup, 
Hath died, we must not thus efface 

Her memory. No ! we reckon up 
The lost, who slumber in their grave, 

As ours. We cite their several names, 
Which He, who now hath taken, gave ; 

And love as well the absent claims 
As this new born. 'T would give me pain 
To hear them call another Jane. 

140 



_ ■-.■ ' ' 






HOME. 



I knew iny father's chimney-top, 

Though nearer to my heart than eye, 

And watched the blue smoke reeking up 
Between me and the winter sky. 

Wayworn I traced the homeward track 
My wayward youth had left with joy ; 

Unchanged in soul I wandered back, 
A man in years, in heart a boy. 

I thought upon its cheerful hearth, 
And cheerful hearts' untainted glee, 

And felt, of all I 'd seen on earth, 
This was the dearest spot to me. 

141 



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■. ...-. ••.. 



ABSENCE. 



O, when shall I be restored 
To the place that is kept for me 

Around the hearth, and around the board, 
In my father's family ? 

When shall my mother's eye 

My coming footsteps greet, 
With a look of days gone by, 

Tender and gravely sweet ? 

I know, when the prayer is said, 
That for me warm bosoms yearn, 

For me fond tears are shed ! 
O, when shall I return ? 

142 



THE TWO GRAVES. 



There is a struggle and a strife 

Within me, as I bid adieu 
To all my household friends in life, 

And may not say the same to you, 
But leave once more, dear kindred dead ! 
Your lowly tombs un visited : 



To leave unmarked the heaving waves 

Of that still burial-ground, 
Where four long years above your graves 

The thickened turf has bound ; 
And think that that rank-bladed sod 
May ne'er again by me be trod. 

143 



144 THE TWO GRAVES. 

But oftener shall my bosom yearn 
Toward your calm bed of ease, 

And thither thought and feeling turn 
In their sad reveries ; 

And never shall that cherished spot 

Be in my stricken heart forgot. 

The chain of grief, time-drawn to length, 
That binds me there to both, 

Alas ! it strengthens with my strength, 
It groweth with my growth ; 

And, even now, my spirit sinks 

To drag its still increasing links. 

When thou wast called away, — the first 

In burial as in birth, — 
I thought thy parents' souls would burst 

At thy return to earth, 
And prayed to bear the grief alone, 
Nor add their anguish to my own. 

It was too much to feel my heart 
So unprepared, my brother ! 

With thee in this vain world to part, 
Or meet thee in another. 

O, may my peace, like thine, be made 

Ere my cold corse is near thee laid ! 



THE TWO GRAVES. 145 

While yet we struggled to sustain 

The drear, soul-sinking weight, 
The fatal shaft was bent again 

At us disconsolate, 
And thou wast summoned next, — the best, 
The youngest, and the loveliest. 

The seeds of visible decay 

Were in thee from that hour, 
And thenceforth thou didst pine away, 

And wither like a flower. 
O God ! it was a grievous thing 
To see thy bitter suffering. 

Then came the poignancy of woe, 

The acme of distress. 
The pangs which parents only know 

When they are daughterless ; 
But still they struggled on, and still 
Submitted to their Maker's will. 

Now all that of thy form survives 

Is at thy brother's side, 
For ye were lovely in your lives, 

And death did not divide ; 
And all that memory brings of thee 
Is to my bosom agony. 
J 



146 THE TWO GRAVES, 

The relics of thy golden hair, 
Thy books, and dresses gay 

Which it was joy to see thee wear 
Upon a holiday, — 

These things, alas ! now thou art gone, 

It wrings my heart to look upon. 

Sometimes thy silvery voice I hear 
Where children are at play, 

But dare not lift my eye for fear 
The spell will melt away ; 

Too well I know the grave denies 

Thy image to my waking eyes. 

Still it has been to me a dear, 
Though desperate delight, 

To meet thee in my dreams, and hear 
Thee bless my sleeping sight ; 

And waking from those visions vain, 

I 've wept to dream them o'er again. 

And yet, so pure, why should I weep 
Thy early death, sweet child ? 

How might we hope on earth to keep 
Thy spirit undefiled ? 

What but thy prompt departure hence 

Could save thy angel innocence ? 



THE TWO GRAVES. 147 

Yes, when I see, beloved child ! 

The evil ways of men, 
My soul is more than reconciled 

To thy departure then : a 
And blessings flow to Him that died 
That sinners might be sanctified. 

Now thou art in the Spirit-land, 

With the holy and the blest, 
Where the wicked cease to trouble, and 

The weary are at rest ; 
And I am happy, since I know 
That thou shalt be forever so. 



a These four lines are virtually quoted from a beautiful little 
poem, by Caroline Bowles, addressed '• To a Dying Infant " : — 

" I look around, and see 

The evil ways of men ; 
And, beloved child ! 
I 'm more than reconciled 

To thy departure then." 




060006060® 




NEW-YEAK THOUGHTS. 

My Muse is no migrating bird, 

Nor one that sleeps the cold away ; 
But in her parlour cage is heard 

Still piping her perennial lay. 
While o'er the sea her tribes retire, 

She, though a patient sufferer, 
Keeps, from her prison by the fire, 

The household in a cheerful stir. 

What dearer lesson to impart 

To murmuring minds than her rich song ? — 
" Abate no jot of hope or heart, 

Though days grow short, and cold grows strong. 
Though pent up in a straitened room, 

Break out, like me, in merriest strain, 
And rise above the circling gloom 

Till better days come round again." 

148 



NEW- YEAR THOUGHTS. 149 

How much we need such song of cheer, 

He will not ask who looks, I ween, 
Where through the portals of the year 

The wintry world without is seen ; 
He will not ask who sees the sky 

Lowering with grim and murky face, 
Or hears the boding frost-wind sigh 

Around his ice-bound dwelling-place. 



He will not ask who sees the crowd, 

In twilight dim, so hurrying past, 
All muffled to the eyes, and bowed 

Before the keen and biting blast ; 
He will not ask who promptly goes, 

On such a night, at duty's call, 
'Mid hail, and sleet, and drifting snows, 

And storm-drops freezing as they fall. 



He will not ask who has to do, 

These dismal times, with suffering men, 
And follows famine's ghastly crew 

To misery's cold and squalid den, 
Where fires are out, or burning low, 

And through broad chinks and broken panes 
The scythe-like air sweeps to and fro, 

Curdling the life-blood in the veins. 



150 NEW-YEAR THOUGHTS. 

He will not ask who climbs the stair, 

Where, reft of fuel, fire, and food, 
A mother sits, like wan despair, 

Benumbed amid her huddling brood : 
Where hopeless woe and hunger steel 

To every form of ill the mind, 
Half crazed by sense of what they feel, 

And fear of what is worse behind. 



O, wouldst thou keep thy heart in tune 

'Mid fireside joys, thy spirit lift, 
Like song of bird in gay saloon, 

Or blossoms in the snowy drift ; 
With deeds of love thy joys expand, 

And deal the blessings of thy lot 
On every side, with generous hand, 

To aching throngs that have them not 



Go, warm the cold ; go, clothe the bare ; 

Go, feed the starved ones at thy door ; 
And let the empty-handed share 

From out thy basket and thy store ; 
Go, wipe from misery's eye the tear, 

Take by the hand affliction's son ; 
And happy shall be all the year 

That is thus happily begun. 



NEW- YEAR THOUGHTS. 151 

Go, give the sick and weary rest ; 

Gladden the cells where prisoners lie ; 
Pour balm and oil in wounded breast. 

And soothe the soul about to die. 
Go where thy name a blessing draws 

From rescued lips on such employ ; 
Partake the bliss of those who cause 

The widow's heart to sing for joy. 



Do thus, and thou shalt go to rest 

With music round thy midnight bed, 
And, blessing, shall be trebly blessed 

For each such soul thus comforted. 
Thy sun shall make a golden set 

This Xew Year's day, and be by far 
The happiest day that ever yet 

Was lettered in thy calendar ! 



^jS^ 






A NEW YEAR'S ADDRESS. 

FROM THE DESK OF POOE RICHARD, JR. 

A happy New Year, patrons, friends ! 

Incline a gracious ear 
To what Poor Richard, junior, sends 

To prove his wish sincere ; 
And do not grudge, he says, to take 

Out of his earthen jar 
True treasures, for the giver's sake, 

If they true treasures are. 

As pure, through Bozra's shallowest stream, 

Oft glitter grains of gold, 
And fair the blessed flowerets gleam 

From sods all dull and cold ; 

152 



A NEW YEAR'S ADDRESS. 153 

So those who prized old Richard's prose, 

Will not to-day disdain 
Whatever wholesome precept glows 

Beneath the carrier's strain. 

Ye who would change these evil days, 

And have them truly blest, 
Must make, in ancient Richard's phrase, 

Of everything the best : 
And each, though knowing but in part 

The mystery of sin, 
Must cure in his own evil heart 

His evil's origin. 



The secret is, Poor Richard says, 

But understood by few, 
That they have happiest New Year's days 

Who have the most to do : 
The poor rejoiceth in his tasks, 

With present good content, 
And sweet his daily bread who asks 

But to be innocent. 

He little knows the bitter cost 

At which the rich increase ; 
The hours of sweet composure lost, 

And compensating peace ; 



154 A NEW YEAR'S ADDRESS. 

He little knows their waking toils, 

Their visions of distress, 
Who dream, amid their hoarded spoils, 

Of fortune's fickleness. 

Cups strive to hold, Poor Richard writes. 

The bucket's draught in vain ; 
Nor can man's straitened appetites 

More than their fill contain. 
Enjoyment has its bounds, though deep 

Be wealth's unfailing spring, 
And all our chiefest comforts keep 

In moderation's ring. 

Labour to pleasure giveth zest, 

Which gold can never win ; 
Cheap recreations are the best, 

And none so dear as sin. 
True joy is where yon visitant 

Some broken spirit cheers, 
And where the pale, lank cheek of want 

Is wet with grateful tears. 

A bold, bad man, or fool, is he 

Who dare the cup refuse 
Which mercy mixeth lovingly, 

And would his neighbour's choose. 



A NEW YEAR'S ADDRESS. 155 

We know the worst of what we are, 

But not another's curse ; 
And certain bad is better far 

Than dread of something worse. 

Poor Richard knows full well distress 

Is real, and no dream ; 
And yet life's bitterest ills have less 

Of bitter than they seem. 
Meet like a man thy coward pains, 

.And some, be sure, will nee ; 
Nor doubt the worst of what remains 

Will blessings prove to thee. 

And thou, whose days abundance bring, 

Give needy men their due ; 
Who saves the poor from suffering, 

May save from sinning too. 
And be thou slow to wield the rod 

When others do thee wronof, 
And bear awhile with them, when God 

Hath borne with thee so lono^. 

On you alone, of lily kind, 

Effeminate and pale, 
Who idle in the summer wind, 

Poor Richard fain would rail, 



156 A NEW YEAR'S ADDRESS. 

Because ye have not toiled and spun 

As sister lilies might, 
Nor are ye wise as Solomon, 

Though gaudier to the sight. 

Your only place, ye well-arrayed, — 
Poor Kichard thinks, — for whom 

The world is under tribute laid 
For finery and perfume, 

Soon as your well-anointed hau- 
ls long enough to braid, 

Should be with some man-milliner, 
To learn a useful trade. 

These are a few of Richard's rules ; 

Nor does he much expect 
To found, amid the rival schools, 

A very numerous sect ; 
Nor will he longer moralize, 

Lest he should prove severe ; 
Enough is said to help the wise 

To make a happy year ! 



VALENTINE. 



I. 



Again the fated hours have come, 

As holy legends tell, 
When Valentine in martyrdom 

A blessed victim fell ; 
And doubt thou not, one wish of thine, 

O gentle maid ! would make, 
This day, thy chosen Valentine 

A martyr for thy sake. 



By ice and snow though severed wide, 

Naught else, O maiden true ! 
Of cold or distance shall divide 

Between myself and you ; 
Though many a bond in sunder parts, 

Snapped by this frosty weather, 
It shall but keep two loving hearts 

Still closer bound together. 
157 







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VALENTINE. 
II. 

" Nee me meminisse pigebit Elis^;, 
Dum memor ipse mei, dum spiritus hos regit artus. 
Pro re pauca loquar." 

No season this for leaves and flowers ; 

And wandering birds who seek a mate, 
'Mid wintry winds and snowy showers, 

Find all forlorn and desolate. 
They come too soon, or Spring too late ; 

A caution, as it were, to me, 
Lest I should rashly tempt my fate, 

And disappoint my destiny. 

My heart, so like the season, cold, 

Has lost its once elastic spring, 
And warns me I am much too old 

To go again philandering ; 
And yet, could youth replume its wing, 

And love inspire the thrilling line, 
Not Petrarch's self such stores should bring, 

To win thee for his Valentine. 

158 



VALENTINE. 



III. 



" thou sweet spirit, hear i 
Hear the mild spell, and tempt no blacker charm ' " 

Lady ! beneath a potent sign, 

I hail thee from afar, 
For 't is the night when Valentine 

Reigns in the calendar ; 
And he my patron saint above 

All other saints shall be, 
Who suffered for devoted love, 

And manly constancy. 



Few relics of his mortal part, 

And fewer still, I ween, 
Of his true love and tender heart, 

In these cold days are seen : 
But if his spirit still may rest 

On earth, 0, be it mine, 
Till I, dear maid, shall stand confessed 

Thy faithful Valentine ! 

159 



A VALENTINE. 



IV. 



I stand the fated hours among ; 

And ere their spell depart, 
I would not leave thee all unsung, 

Fair lady of my heart ! 
Though wintry airs are wondrous sharp, 

Though storms obscure the moon, 
And cold has snapped thy strings, poor harp ! 

My heart is still in tune. 



Yes, let the world without be chill, 

Let all be wild and wet, 
The fire within glows brightly still, 

The pulse throbs warmly yet ; 
Nor will it throb, dear maid, in vain : 

How rude soe'er the line, 
Thy gentle heart will not disdain 

Thine own true Valentine. 

160 



THE CHAPEL BELL, YALE COLLEGE. 

FROM THE MANUSCRIPT OF A LATE POOR SCHOLAR. 

" The chapel bell with grief they heard, 
The dinner bell with glee." -^ Old Song. 

Dan Chaucer, in my dreaming ear 

Methinks thou reasonest well, — 
" What jingleth in the wind so clear 

As doth the chapel bell ? " 
The tongue, that once roused holy clerk 

To lauds and primes, is still, 
In college towers, as hard at work, — 

As lively and as shrill. 



That chapel bell no ear forgets 
That once its voice has known, 

And way of turning somersets 
Peculiarly its own : 

K 161 



162 THE CHAPEL BELL. 

Hark ! how they follow round and round, 

And oft in silence dance, 
As if, for very joy, the sound 

Had lost its utterance ! 

Alas ! old chapel bell, to me, 

Whose precious dreams are broke 
By these remains of Popery, 

Thy jargon is no joke ! 
I 've mixed too much with Protestants, 

And trust I ever shall, 
To relish these monastic haunts, 

And hours canonical ! 

O, dull as lead that scene of gloom 

Where students stretch and yawn, 
Pent up in recitation-room 

An hour before the dawn ; 
Well may the cheek with blushes glow, 

To think of wrongs then done 
Thy injured shade, O Cicero ! 

And thine, Xenophon ! 

A fig for all affected talk 

Of early matin prayers, 
Of long and lone surburban walk, 

And bracing morning airs ; 



THE CHAPEL BELL. 163 

If stomachs are unbreakfasted, 

The case can scarce be worse ; 
And if as empty is the head, 

'T is sure a double curse. 

I '11 bless my stars, which shine so bright, 

When I shall be no more 
Compelled to rise by candle-light, 

And vote the stars a bore. 
I '11 laugh as I have never laughed, 

Nor dread the coming ill 
Of meeting some protested draft 

Of monitorial bill. 

O, how I grudge that graduate's luck 

Who has of sleep his fill, 
And snores like Captain Clutterbuck, 

Released from morning drill. 
He rises not at tuck of drum, » 

Nor with the daybreak gun, 
Nor always, it is said by some, 

With wintry's tardy sun. 

Like him, these summons I '11 deride, 

Draw closer down my cap, 
And, turning on my other side, 

Resume my morning nap. 



164 



THE CHAPEL BELL. 



I '11 linger for a richer tone, 
Till in the breakfast bell 

I feel, and, with the poet, own 
Thy touch, Ithuriel ! 



/^CTV^SiCp^ 








AN APOLOGY. 

FROM A ROCK CALLED THE POET'S SEAT. 

Emerging from the storied wood, 

Enforced, I took the poet's seat ; 
Inspiring faces o'er me stood, 

And Greenfield lay beneath my feet. 
With lulling sound I heard fast by 

The unseen river's broken flows, 
And all things seemed to multiply 

One image of serene repose. 



I little thought, 'mid musings vain, 

How like that stone to fate of bard, — 
Rich visions floating round his brain, 

But ah ! his seat, so lone and hard ! 
Of friendship and of feeling full, 

How little, in his weakness, dreamt he 
That head and fancy both were dull, 

And, like his rocky inkstand, empty ! 

165 



ARCHITECTURAL. 



"HOUSES OF WORSHIP." 



Pray tell nie, is yon classic dome, 

Hemmed in on either flank, 
Designed for God's or Mammon's home, 

A temple or a bank ? 
And tell me why, to human eyes, 

No outward signs declare 
If it be house of merchandise, 

Or holy house of prayer. 



The Hindoo pagod's towers are gay 

With flaunting banners set ; 
And crescents in the sunbeams play 

On mosque and minaret : 
As by the Synagogue I went, 

Some months ago, I saw 
Conspicuous in the pediment 

The tables of the law. 

166 



ARCHITECTURAL. 167 

But who shall say of this unique 

With what it has to do, 
Or Catholic, or Heretic, 

Or Pagan, Turk, or Jew? 
Or that new pantheistic sect 

Whose creeds with all accord, 
Who worship, with a like respect, 

" Jehovah, Jove, or Lord " ? 



O, why should Christian men thus fear 

To lift on every shrine 
The symbol to their souls most dear, 

Faiths sure and steadfast sign ; 
That swerves not when the vanes are whirled, 

The sport of every breeze, 
As fitful as this fickle world, 

Or fancy's reveries ? 



But look on all the neighboring spires, 

And see it written plain, 
The shape which most the town admires 

Is, like its name, hut vain. 
The Cross is still a stumbling-block, 

And noisy Gushfords vaunt 
That nothing but your weathercock 

Is purely Protestant. 



168 



ARCHITECTURAL. 



There were some reason on their side, 

If these same cocks could crow 
As often as is Christ denied 

By those who meet below ; 
Or could they warn the wavering, 

By passion tossed and doubt, 
Of their unrest whom every wind 

Of doctrine veers about. 



NAHANT. 



Rocks, sands, and seas, 

What charms hast thou but these, 

O desolate Nahant ! 
Rocks, sands, and seas, 
Twelve grotesque cottages, 
And six storm-beaten trees, 

Struck all aslant ! 

169 



OLD NORTH COCK. 

Roosted upon his ancient ball, 
Last night, sat the old North cock, 

In the midst of a terrible northeast squall 
Which made the steeples rock, 

And waked the watchmen one and all, 
As the bell tolled twelve o'clock. 

With head erect and unruffled form, 

The hearty and tough old cock, 
Through wind and rain, and cold and warm, 

All weathers continues to mock ; 
And he whisked him round to face the storm, 

And breasted himself to the shock. 



O image of triple guilt, quoth I, 
I should very much like to know 



170 



OLD NORTH COCK. 171 

* 
If you have a bit of reason why, 

While all these changelings here below, 
Like Peter of old, their Lord deny, 

You never were known to crow. 

Whist ! whist ! quoth Chanticleer, you 're slow ; 

How could I crow as fast or 
Oft, as these my friends below, 

And each misguiding pastor, 
And the Priestly men who teach them so, 

Deny their Lord and Master ? 



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- -J 



NEW HAYEN. 

A window in a picture-shop ; it brought all back 
to me 

The churches and the colleges, and each familiar 
tree ; 

And, like a sunlit emerald, came glancing out, be- 
tween 

Its pretty, snow-white palisades, the verdure of " the 
Green." 

O, could I write an Ode, like Gray's, upon a distant 

view 
Of Eton College, —could I draw the pictures that 

he drew, — 
How would the pleasant images that round my 

temples throng 
Live in descriptive dactyls, and look verdantly, in 



172 



NEW HAVEN. 173 

" Tres faciunt collegium," each jurist now agrees ; 
Which means, in the vernacular r — a college 

made of trees; 
And, bosomed high in uifted boughs, yon venerable 

rows 
The maxim in its beauty and its truth alike disclose. 

Not so when, lit with midnight oil, the casements in 

long line, 
(Where more is meant than meets the eye,) like 

constellations shine ; 
And, alma-mater like, the kine, from dairy fields 

astray, 
Make every passage where they pass a sort of milky 

way. 

And on the green and easy slope where those proud 

columns stand, 
In Dorian mood, with academe and temple on each 

hand, 
The football and the cricket-match upon my vision 

rise, 
With all the clouds of classic dust kicked in each 

other's eyes. 

I see my own dear mother Church, that warned me 

from my sin, 
The walls so Gothic all without, so glorious all within, 



174 NEW HAVEN. 

And, emblem of that ancient faith her hallowed 

courts that fills, 
Reared from the adamantine rock, the everlasting 

hills. 

0, could the vista of my life but now as bright ap- 
pear 

As when I first through Temple Street looked down 
thine espalier, 

How soon to thee, my early home, would I once 
more repair, 

And cheer again my sinking heart with my own 
native air ! 







PRISON HYMN, BY MARY, QUEEN OF 
SCOTS. 



Jehovah, my Saviour, 

My confidence Thou ; 
O loveliest Jesus, 

Deliver me now ! 
In closest immurings, 
In cruel endimngs, 
My flesh and my spirit cry out after Thee ! 

I languish 

In anguish, 
And, bending the knee, 

Adore Thee, 

Implore Thee 
To liberate me. 

175 



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LAKE OWASCO. 

" One of the seven fair lakes that lie 
Like mirrors 'neath the summer sky." 

Ensenore. 

Fair upon thy tranquil face 

The gilded clouds, in rich array, 
Reflected pass, and leave no trace, — 

Types of thy people passed away ! 
And he who through thy pictured page 

Looks deepest down, with rapture sees, 
Like relics of that long-lost age, 

The glimmerings of dim mysteries. 

Well may the statesmen, for such seats, 

Resign the empire's helm awhile, 
And deep within thy green retreats 

The languid summer hours beguile. 
Here Scipio had, in joy, repaired 

With Laelius, at the Senate's close, 
And by thy shaded strand had shared 

The charms of friendship and repose. 

176 



LAKE OWASCO. 177 

Bright visions haunt thy storied dells, 

Nor may thy crystal waters drown 
The mingled pomps of poet's spells, 

And legends of thine old renown. 
To fancy's ear they utter speech 

In tones unsyllabled before, 
And every ripple on the beach 

Seems faintly whispering, " Ensenore ! 




m ^ V V ^ v v rr nf rr fTTTT^rf^ ^trnJh 



ALBANY. 



" Genus unde Latinum 
Albaniqtje patres atque alt-E mcenia Rom^." 

Instinct with filial love I come, O ancient Albany ! 

My childhood's faithful nurse, to pay the tribute 
due to thee ; 

For in thy dear domestic haunts I learned my ear- 
liest song, 

And manhood's riper minstrelsies to thee of right 
belong ! 

When, after many weary years, again to thee I drew, 

And suddenly from Greenbush side the landscape 
burst to view, 

How thrilled my pulse, how swelled my heart, upon 
that lofty height ! 

For never in my life, methought, saw I a fairer sight. 

178 



ALBANY. 179 

Thy gilded spires and pinnacles rose glittering in 

the sun, 
And each familiar edifice I counted one by one, 
As, row on row descending steep, they met the 

river shore, 
TVTiich, sheathed in winter's icy mail, with masts 

was bristled o'er. 
Though sharply blew the northern wind, so bril- 
liant was the scene, 
So shone the noble stream that lay in glassy bonds 

between, 
I felt thou wert a spectacle of stirring power to 

see, 
And proudly hailed thee as mine own, O ancient 

Albany ! 



Yet brighter than that spectacle, that prospect's 
fair array, 

Or Nature in her purity that round about me lay, 

A dearer vision chained my soul more touching far 
than these, 

And peopled all the pictured past with busy mem- 
ories. 

O, let me in my weakness give these childish feel- 
ings way, 

That rush upon me as I weave my humble verse 
to-day, 



180 ALBANY. 

Nor wonder if the spells of youth, strong as enchant- 
ment's chain, 

Should bind me to the single theme, and quite ab- 
sorb the strain. 

What troops of stirring images my brooding fancy 

fill, 
Oft as I turn my glistening gaze to Capitol and Hill ! 
As fast they rush as when, of yore, with many a 

reckless boy, 
I glided down its dangerous slope, and snatched a 

fearful joy. 
Where are the partners of those feats, the striplings 

one and all, 
Who sat with me at Wisdom's feet in old " Uranian 

Hall," 
Ere yet the genius of the place her fostering care 

withdrew, 
To gather fitter audience there, and fairer though 

less few ? 

How small their living number now ! how many in 

their grave, 
The gallant and the generous, the beautiful and 

brave ! 
And hearts are broke and eyes are dim which then 

with lustre shone, 
And each stands in the other's sight unknowing 

and unknown. 



ALBANY. 181 

While thus our cycles sadly pass, and flesh and blood 

decay, 
How good to know that all we prize has not yet 

passed away, — 
That while earth's generations change, as years have 

come and gone, 
Still Freedom's precious heritage of human rights 

lives on ! 

Still peers the self-same Capitol upon the city's 

brow, 
Though loftier to my boyhood's eye, yet not more 

dear than now ; 
Kor less illustrious on its rolls its statesmen's glory 

shines, 
True to their common country each, though ranged 

in adverse lines. 
In democratic majesty again around me rise 
Its long processions of the past, the mighty and the 

wise, 
The men of reverend name who there discharged 

their honoured trust, 
And filled my soul with wisdom's words and senti- 
ments august. 
There first I marked his high career, whose early 

merit won 
The choicest of his epithets, " the people's favourite 

son : " 



182 ALBANY. 

Who to the triumph in the van led on the Empire 

State, 
And now in highest sphere adorns his country's 

consulate. 

Long may the Alban fathers there in Roman virtue 
sit, 

And tire its echoes with the strains of eloquence 
and wit, 

And, fast emerging from the cloud and din of fac- 
tious war, 

Make our symbolic orb of day rise still " Excelsior ! " 

May yet the good St. Nicholas maintain our old 
renown, 

From worthy sire to worthier son to be transmitted 
down, 

And keep beneath his tutelage, till time shall cease 
to be, 

The trophies of thy founders' fame, O ancient Co- 
lonic ! 



FRAGMENTS 



SUNDAY MORNING. 



Lord of the Sabbath, hear me, — even Thou 

In the beginning w h didst consecrate 

A meet proportion of the new-born time 

To thy perpetual service, to assist 

The deep infirmities of mortal kind ; 

Blessing the seventh day and hallowing it 

As a memorial of thine own repose 

From thy creative labors, and a pledge 

And presage of the glorious rest eterne 

Remaining for the Israel of God. 

Here let me worship, as the Hebrew did, 

In the serene of yon deep vault, ere Thou, 

Half veiled within the tabernacle bright, 

Madest thy pavilion in the wilderness, 

Amid the long, white avenues of tents. 

The world's great fathers, in those primal days, 

Drowned in the abyss of ages which have been, 

183 



184 FRAGMENTS. 

Made each high hill their altar. Happy they 

Who met together, at this holy hour, 

Beneath some mountain palm, the place of prayer 

Ere temple rose, or oratory cool 

Was built fast by the sea or river side. 



IN A HEBREW BIBLE WITHOUT POINTS. 

Open now the Hebrew page, 
Sleek and glossy spite of age ; 
Unsophisticated text, 
By no Masorite perplext ; 
Where each character you see 
In its stern simplicity. 
Upright, racy, square, and bold, 
Symbol of the truth they hold, 
As the eye delights to track, 
Bow by row, the letters black, 
Say, is not each martial line 
Worthy of the Word divine ? 



ON A SERMON-COVER. 



Nor was my earliest sermon case forgot, 
With velvet cover, and with vellum lined ; 
The opening collects on the left-hand page, 



FRAGMENTS. 185 

And on the right-hand those of closing prayer, 
With skill imprinted at the Wickham press. 
Though soiled and worn, vet not more soiled and 

worn 
Than are the dingy sheets I fasten in, 
Oft as I preach contemporaneous notes. 
Not so the truths themselves, nor truest love, 
Decay and perish, though the world wear old 
And threadbare as the velvet, and the skies 
Be shrivelled parchment at the day of doom ! 




CONVOCATION POEM. 



A FRAGMENT. 



[This fragment of what the author suppressed as a 
"wretched doggerel," is all that is known to remain of 
the poem which the poet delivered before the House of 
Convocation of Trinity College, in the month of August, 
1848. It is preserved for the interest which it shows in 
that seat of learning, and for the local matters to which 
it gives a memorial, and the useful rebukes it points. It 
was written invito, Minerva, in the greatest haste ; it was, 
in fact, a sort of improvisation, and he never referred to 
the performance except with expressions of extreme re- 
pugnance, such as appear in the verse itself. Beginning 
with recollections of the Puritan College at New Haven, 
he refers to the pictures in the " Trumbull Gallery."] 

There first we gazed on the serene expanse 

Of Berkeley's bright and heavenly countenance, 

And could not but contrast it, in our sport, 

With thy pinched visage, prick-eared Davenport ; 

Nor queried, as we turned to either face, 

Which were the real genius of the place. 

186 



CONVOCATION POEM. 187 

[He then takes up an idea which has been thrown out by 
another, in a former Convocation poem (1840), and speaks 
of Trinity College as the realization of Bishop Berkeley's 
attempt to establish St. Paul's College in Bermuda.] 

Taught, (in a brother's words,) to love in thee 

" Earth's every virtue, writ in poesy ; " 

O Berkeley, as I read, with moistened eyes, 

Of thy sublime but blasted enterprise, 

Refusing, in thy pure, unselfish aim, 

To sell to vulgar wealth a founder's fame, 

But in thy fervour sacrificing all 

To objects worthy of the name of Paul, 

What joy to see in our official line 

A faith revived, identical with thine ; 

Pledged to fulfil the spirit of thy scheme, 

And prove thy College no ideal dream ! 

[He next refers to the portrait of Bishop Seabury in 
Trinity College, mentioning the fact that Bishop Berke- 
ley's son was a chief instrument in obtaining the conse- 
cration of Bishop Seabury by the Scottish Bishops.] 

And when, on yonder walls, we now survey 

The man "whose grace chalked his successor's way," 

And study, Samuel, thy majestic head, 

By Berkeley's son to Heaven's anointing led, 

And see the ways of Providence combine 

The gentle bishop with the masculine, 

We pray this noblest offspring of thy see 

May honour Berkeley, nor dishonour thee. 



188 CONVOCATION POEM. 

[He now refers to Dr. Cutler, formerly Eector of Yale 
College, and Dr. Johnson, one of its Fellows, who in the 
early part of the seventeenth centiny became converts 
to the principles of the Church, from the light of then- 
studies, and were of course deprived of their places. 
They went to England for orders; Cutler became Eec- 
tor of Christ Church, Boston, and Johnson the father of 
churches and of churchmen in Connecticut. Dr. Cros- 
well himself, and Dr. Eaton, who were present on the oc- 
casion, were both successors of Cutler in the Rectorship 
of Christ Church.] 

And join with these those master minds of yore 
Who loved their College much, but conscience 

more, — 
Cutler and Johnson, whom one rigorous day 
Drove out from Yale, a voluntary prey, 
To reap at once by Cam and Isis' side 
The honours which maternal scorn denied. 
Though it might well provoke their reverend smiles 
To think of rivalling those immortal piles, 
Yet, as aspiring over sect and clique, 
To follow all that made them catholic, 
If they were here, from Christ Church chimes afar, 
To-day, as Cutler's two successors are, 
They would have prayed, dear Trinity, to see 
" No drought on others, but much dew on thee." 

[Next the poet speaks of architecture, and laments the 
prostitution of the Gothic to common uses, and especially 
bewails the lack of proper chapels in American Colleges.] 



CONVOCATION POEM. 189 

Harvard and Yale have both revived the style 

And antique grandeur of some fine old pile. 

Those solemn towers, — how beautiful they stand, 

Like mighty minsters of our fatherland ! 

But not, alas ! for worship : though their looks 

Be so eathedral-like, they hold but books ; 

The form without the spirit, each retains, — 

The vizard of the fable without brains. 

And so they sever piety from art, 

Addressing more the intellect than heart. 

Xot to resist the truism of the hour, 

We freely grant that knowledge may be power; 

But on our knees, and not on alcoved shelves, 
We find, through God, the knowledge of ourselves. 

[It should be recollected that this poem was spoken in 
Christ Church, of which the Rev. Dr. Wheaton, its Rec- 
tor, had been the architect. The poet now passes to as- 
pirations for Trinity.] 

But far from such unholy sights as these 

The hopes that haunt our sacred reveries : 

In yonder hall there yet is room to spare 

For store of books, — would that the books were 

there ! 
But (if indeed, the love of letters hold 
Its place, as handmaid to the Faith of old) 



190 CONVOCATION POEM. 

If we would have that favoured site to be, 

Above all others, "fair exceedingly," 

Let Wheatox plan, like this, another shrine 

For purposes exclusively divine ; 

Not York Cathedral "ona smaller scale," 

And " much improved where the dark ages fail ; " 

Nor yet King's College Chapel, that " immense 

And glorious work of fine intelligence ; " 

But " all we can, — high Heaven # disdains the lore 

Of nicely-calculated less or more." 

There, with the stony archwork overhead, 

Beneath our feet the ashes of the dead, 

And monumental effigies around, 

The soul might wander as in holy ground, 

And feel a soft religious sadness brood, 

Deepening the spirit of its quietude. 

There let the sun " salute with his first smile 

Our holiest symbol crowning the dear pile ; " 

And be the power of architecture shown 

To lift the Athanasian Creed in stone. 

Within, a tempered light, like sunset skies, 

Let glimmerings of a thousand gorgeous dyes 

Shed streaming down from every pictured pane 

Their rainbow glories round the vaulted fane, 

And through the window o'er the altar fling 

The heaven-hued symbols in enamelling. 

There let the organ and the strain devout 

Make every stone in sympathy cry out, 



CONVOCATION POEM. 191 

Like some harmonious fabric of the Lord's, 

" Whose vaults are shells, and pillars tuneful chords." 

There let the surpliced priests in order stand, — 

And why not white-robed choirs on either hand ? 

If this be too extravagant a pitch, 

(Alas that our endowments are not rich !) 

Still, what we can. Let us contend, at least, 

For daily service and the vested priest ; 

And let the season blend, in fixed career, 

The Christian and the academic vear ; 

Be music carried to the full extent 

Allowed by ancient choral precedent ; 

And let the students' well-trained voices swell 

Each hoary laud, time-honoured canticle, 

Which England, purged from superstition's stain, 

Resumed among her earliest rites again. 

[He refers next to the attempts at daily and choral ser- 
vices, made at Hobart College, and Burlington, and St. 
Paul's in Missouri, — the latter under the Kev. William 
Corbyn, one of Yale's Berkeley scholars.] 

Hark ! the strains, increasing far and wide, 
From Seneka and graceful Riverside ! 
Like deep to deep the billowy anthem calls, 
From far Nashotah to her own St. Paul's, 
And rings through her affiliated halls. 
Vale of the Cross, as gentle shepherds tell, 
Such sounds are heard in thy secluded dell ; 



192 CONVOCATION POEM. 

From Corbyn's grot the self-same chant is raised, 
And " daily prayer is made, and daily is He praised." 

[He recurs to the divers uses which the chapel of Yale 
College is made to serve, in contrast with such chapels as 
he has spoken of.] 

Perhaps it is not scandal to compare 

Such courts with that amphibious place of prayer, 

(Contrived, like Goldsmith's chest, two debts to 

pay,— 

A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day,) 

Where now awhile in worship we engage, 

Then knights and squires shall enter on the stage ; 

Which for a time a meeting-house is made, 

And then it glitters in a masquerade. 

Four years I saw the central aisle divide 

The rows of rising seats on either side, 

Where double choirs, ward over against? ward, 

Might sing responsive praises to the Lord. 

But not so these : while yet the tutor reads, 

The muster-master's busy work proceeds. 

In due obeisance every head was bent 

Upon the entering of the President, 

But 't was a superstition for the free 

At Jesus' name to bow the lowly knee. 

And scarce the echoes died of prayer and praise, 

Before the youths declaimed, or spouted plays. 



CONVOCATION POEM. 193 

These are the ways which in our Western climes 
Make the " men-children of these forward times ; " 
Of whom old Dryden said, so long ago, 
" But seven wise men the ancient world did know, 
We scarce know seven that think themselves not 

so." 
Against these evils let the Church commence 
Her sure protection, and her " cheap defence." 
Though worldly cares have chilled devotion's flame, 
Here let our needs a daily homage claim ; 
Here let our prayers like morning incense rise, 
Our lifted hands like evening sacrifice ; 
Devotion's debt at morn and eve to pay, 
And magnify our Saviour day by day. 

In order these great objects to secure, 
All must be first begun in miniature ; 
And if a while your patience will but bear 
With these plain couplets, I will tell you where. 

This is the place and time ; at once begin 
Here to restore the ancient discipline. 
Adopt the Church's homogeneous plan 
To make the boy the father of the man ; 
Where, in their due development, appear 
The blade, the ear, the full corn in the ear, 
So making good the old proverbial line, 
Just as the twig is bent, the trees incline. 

M 



194 CONVOCATION POEM. 

Let every pupil, with his sapling, aid 
To fill the grounds with " shrubbery and shade ; " 
Plant oaks and " elms, those undissenting trees," 
That grow not fast, but thrive for centuries ; 
Beneath whose shadow, ages hence, our heirs 
May bless our forethought, and take thought for 

theirs. 
And let the English ivy, high and thick, 
Conceal the tame monotony of brick,— 
Amid the snows of winter ever green, 
From summer suns a most refreshing screen. 

Nor would my scheme reject the dining-hall, 
Where what was meant for one was meant for all ; 
Such as it was of old, when common food 
Was made a bond of Christian brotherhood, 
And each might wait, and of his Saviour learn 
" To be as him that serveth," in his turn. 

But first of all erect a chapel there, 

And join at morn and eve in common prayer ; 

If means be wanting, take yon upper room, 

And teach the light u to counterfeit the gloom ; " 

Then, chastening down the gaudy light of day, 

Subdue the thoughts bewildered with their play, 

And let the organ add its soothing sway. 

Set up the holy altar there, and trail 

Their young affections round the chancel pale ; 



COXVOCATIOX POEM. 195 

Purging the taint of heresy and schism 

By constant portions of the Catechism. 

In open view, let none regard the floor 

Too low when prostrate mortals would adore, 

But duly raise, upon their bended knees. 

The full response of ancient litanies : 

Invoke their Saviour in his Church's voice, 

And in his eucharistic hymns rejoice. 

The pointed Psalter printed in their heart, 

There let them learn to bear them tuneful part, 

Drilled to the cadence of that thrilling scale 

Which, caught from seraphs, must o'er earth prevail. 

So shall the watered seed spring up, and so 

Children of grace to giant stature grow. 

Nor let us see that holy place within 

A priest in ;i broadcloth buttoned to the chin." 

Holmes writes, •• Heaven needs no surplice ; " as if he 

Thought Heaven is pleased when men dress 

slovenly. 
Heaven needeth not man's wisdom, but " much less 
It needeth any of man's foolishness." 

If this be superstition, may we be 

All guilty of it in the first degree. 

Rernembr'ing thus Jerusalem in mirth. 

Sweet Herbert found his very heaven on earth : 

And Milton tells, as Milton only can, 

What thus he learned, — poor, superstitious man ! 



196 CONVOCATION POEM. 

O, on yon slope, may some such towers arise 
As plumed his wings sublime for paradise ! 
Where, in our day, due feet might never fail, 
Like his, to walk the studious cloisters' pale, 
And love, like him, the high embowed roof 
Resting on antique pillars, massy proof 
And catch through storied windoivs richly dight 
A dim, religious, (superstitious) light: 
There may we hear the pealing organ blow 
To full-voiced choirs, antiphonal, below, 
In that same service high, and anthems clear, 
As oft with sweetness through his charmed ear 
Dissolved great Milton's self to ecstasies, 
And brought all heaven before his raptured eyes. 

[He now suggests the building of a Senate-House, on the 
banks of the Hart, the river which winds about the College 
grounds.] 

And yet another tabernacle rear 
For such occasions as have brought us here ! 
Above the stir and din of mangling mart, 
Beside the ancient passage of the Hart, 
Let faith and fancy help to give to fame 
" A local habitation and a name." 

[Next he satirizes the Trinity College processions to 
Christ Church through the dusty town.] 

Beneath the dog-star and midsummer heat, 
Let no procession through the burning street, 



CONVOCATION POEM. 197 

With tasselled cap and academic gown, 

Exposed to the annoyance of the town, ' 

Like needless alexandrine in the song, 

Or wounded snake, trail its slow length along. 

Pavilioned, if it need be, in a tent, 

Until some Wykeham makes it permanent ; 

Or cloistered where o'erarching boughs have made 

Refreshing contiguity of shade ; 

There let us gather, where no sounds intrude 

To break the silence of the solitude 

Save song of native birds, or — piercing scream 

Of railroad engine clattering o'er the stream ! 

If we must have processions, let them pass 

When shadows he the longest on the grass ; 

And for this martial music, let there be 

Such chants as floated down the sylvan Dee, — 

The " Miserere mei, Doniine." 

And let the bell in yonder humble tower 

Wake dewy silence at an earlier hour, 

And usher in, betimes, the festal day 

With merry peal and changeful roundelay. 

So in the morning, far from Babel's dust, 
These August days might yet be days august, 
And words of power the place might glorify, 
Which willingly the world would not let die. 
There Dana might, in happiest mood, rehearse 
Some last great effort of his deathless verse ; 



198 CONVOCATION POEM. 

Or Irving, like Arcadian, might beguile 
The golden hours with his melodious style ; 
Or he who takes no second living rank 
Among the classics of the Church, — Verplanck; 
Or he whose course " right onward," here begun, 
Now sheds its brightness over Burlington, 
Where our young sons like noble saplings grow, 
And daughters like the polished pillars show. 



[Last of all, he censures the custom of building platforms 
in churches, and celebrating academic festivals therein.] 

My heart upbraids me, friends, with double wrong, 

While I inflict and you endure the song. 

Were we indeed in earnest, and sincere, 

When we professed that heaven's Jiigh gate was here ? 

And set apart forever, day and night, 

These solemn courts for old liturgic rite ? 

Then we must sure be wrong ; we greatly err 

Who use the church worse than the theatre, 

And, like false Israel, our high places raise 

As scaffolds on our sacrificing days ; 

Where one at least, poor victim of his kind, 

If not as strong as Samson, yet as blind, 

Conies sadly forth, to make Philistines sport, 

And immolate himself in Dagon's court ; 

Content if but the sacrifice should tend 

To brim? these gross abuses to an end. 



CONVOCATION POEM. 199 

Pardon thy servant, Lord, if he profane 
These hallowed walls with his unworthy strain ; 
Forgive, this once, all that to-day he durst — 
His last transgression, as it is his first — 
In telling truths which everybody knows, 
But dare not speak them plainly out in prose ; 
And for the future, hear his solemn pledge 
To be no party to the sacrilege. 

O, would we teach young scholars reverence, 

Let judgment here begin, — " take these thing3 

hence." 
And doubt it not, His Holy Spirit grieves 
To see His house made like a den of thieves ; 
To see a scaffold, by our graduates trod, 
Erected o'er the altar of our God ; 
And grave divines upon the platform meet, 
To tread our holiest things beneath their feet. * 
This cannot sure be right : we ask to see, 
If not perfection, yet consistency. 
Xo wonder, where such profanation dwells, 
If sons emerge precocious infidels. 
O, better far, if we can find no hall 
For such assembly, to have none at all ; 
Or, like the sons of knighthood, take degrees 
Before the altar, on our bended knees. 

[He censures more severely the gross custom of leasing 
pews, annually, by an auctioneer.] 



200 CONVOCATION POEM. 

Scarce more disgusting 't is, when year by year, 

With his red flag, comes in the auctioneer. 

Abomination, blazoned on his face, 

Stands, where it ought not, in the holy place ; 

Where he who sells combines with him who buys 

To make God's house a house of merchandise. 

Within the sacred altar's rail, or desk, 

He lifts his voice in impudent burlesque ; 

Lays godless hands upon the Bible lid, 

Not to ask blessings, but to ask — a bid : 

And voices, never heard in time of prayer, 

Are emulous in loud responses there. 

O, thus, methinks, might Mammon once have stood, 

With that same look, and that same attitude, 

And bent his downward glances to behold 

Heaven's courts inlaid with patines of bright gold, 

And, as the poet tells, admiring more 

The trodden wealth of that resplendent floor 

Than aught enjoyed of holy or divine, 

In vision beatific, at the shrine. 

But had that spirit, " least erect," the gift 

With which our modern Mammon follows thrift, 

He might from his high place have learned to muse 

Of parcelling heaven's pure pavement into pews / 

Seen how to make each consecrated floor 

Productive gold, that was but wood before ; 

Where men have leave in narrow slips to pray, 

(If pray they choose,) provided that they pay ; 



CONVOCATION POEM. 201 

Yet need not care to worship on their knees, 
But sit, like rows of meal-sacks, at their ease. 

Unless its title-deeds a falsehood tell, 
The house of God cannot be man's to sell ; 
Nor yet to turn, in sight of God and man, 
Into a kind of college caravan. 
If insincere our gift, — if we retain 
Part of the price, — the gift is worse than vain. 
We dare to tempt His ancient people's fate, 
Whose house was left unto them desolate ; 
And though no gates, like theirs, asunder start, 
Nor unseen voices cry, " Let us depart," 
The glory will have vanished, and our God 
Have written on its portals, Ichabod. 

[It is due to Trinity College to state that the reforms here 
indicated have been more than begun, and that no College 
in New England can be compared with it for the beauty of 
its grounds, the decent order of its chapel-services, or the 
propriety of its public ceremonies. Nowhere is a more 
thorough course of instruction provided for the student, 
and a bright future is confidently anticipated for the Col- 
lege by all who regard the influences of the Church as an 
essential element in the full development of character.] 




PSALM I. 

Happy the man who never walks 
Where impious men repair, 

Nor lingers in the sinner's way, 
Nor takes the scoffer's chair. 

But in Jehovah's ordinance 
He finds a pure delight ; 

Enriching thus the orisons 
Of every day and night. 

He like a fruitful tree shall be, 
Set by the water's brim ; 

His leaf shall never fade, and all 
Is prosperous with him. 



Not so the impious ones ; — like chaff 

Swept by the wind away, 
They with the righteous shall not stand 

Upon the judgment day. 

202 



PSALM L 

They hold no place amid the just, 
Whose way Jehovah knows ; 

And every path of godless men 
Shall in perdition close. 



203 








psalm cxxxm. 

Behold, how good it is, 

How beautiful to see, 
When brethren together dwell 

In perfect unity. 

Like perfume on the head, 

Diffusing' fragrance round 
The high priest's beard, and o'er the robes 

Whose fringes sweep the ground. 

Like Hermon's dews which melt 

Fair Zion's summits o'er ; 
For there Jehovah's blessing rests, 

And life for evermore. 

204 






PSALM CXXXIV. 

O, praise Jehovah, ye 
Who his true servants be, 

Jehovah praise ! 
Ye who to stand delight, 
And worship in his sight, 
Nor leave his courts by night, 

Jehovah praise ! 

With hands uplifted high, 
His oracle draw nigh ; 

Jehovah praise ! 
Till he with holiness 
His tribes from Zion bless, 
And heaven and earth confess 

Jehovah's praise ! 

205 



PSALM CXXXVII. 

By the waters of Babel we sat down and wept, 
As we called our dear Zion to mind ; 

And our harps that in joy we so often had swept 
Now sighed on the trees to the wind. 

Then they that had carried us captive away. 

In mockery, challenged a song, 
And wringing out mirth from our sadness, would 
say, 

" Sing the strains that to Zion belong." 



O how shall we sing the ineffable song 

In a godless and barbarous land ? 
If the minstrels of Salem could do her such wrong, 

Be palsied each cunning right hand. 

206 



PSALM CXXXVIL 207 

Let my tongue to the roof of my mouth ever cling, 
If aught else should its praises employ, 

Or if Salem's high glories it choose not to sing, 
Above all terrestrial joy. 

Remember the children of Edom, O Lord, 
How they cried, in Jerusalem's woe, 

Her ramparts and battlements raze with the sword, 
Her temples and towers overthrow. 

O daughter of Babel ! thy ruin makes haste ; 

And blessed be he who devours 
Thy children with famine and misery waste, 

As thou, in thy rapine, served ours. 




PSALM CL. 

" Hail ye the Lord ! " 

Hail him in his sanctitude ! 

Hail him in his highest height ! 
Hail him for his deeds of good ! 

Hail him for his matchless might ! 

Hail him in the trumpet's strain ! 

Hail him with the lyre and lute ! 
Hail him with the timbrel train ! 

Hail him with the strings and flute ! 



Hail him with the cymbal's ring ! 

Hail him with their loudest chord ! 
Hail him, every breathing thing ! 

Hail, all hail, the sovereign Lord ! 

208 






ADVENT. 



Rejoice in the Lord alway ; and again I say, Rejoice. The Lord 
is at hand. — Epistle for the Sunday before Christmas. 



Now gird your patient loins again, 

Your wasting torches trim ; 
The Chief of all the sons of men, — 

Who will not welcome Him ? 
Rejoice ! the hour is near ; at length 

The Journeyer on his way 
Comes in the greatness of his strength 

To keep his holy day. 

With cheerful hymns and garlands sweet, 

Along his wintry road, 
Conduct him to his green retreat, 

His sheltered, safe abode ; 

N 209 



210 ADVENT. 

Fill all his courts "with sacred songs, 
And from the temple wall 

Wave verdure o'er the joyful throngs 
That crowd his festival. 

And still more greenly in the mind 

Store up the hopes sublime 
Which then were born for all mankind. 

So blessed was the time ; 
And underneath these hallowed eaves 

A Saviour will be born 
In every heart that Him receives 

On his triumphal morn. 




^^M^^^M^^M^^^M 



HYMN FOR ADVENT. 

While the darkness yet hovers. 

The harbinger star 
Peers through and discovers 

The dawn from afar : 
To many an aching 

And watch-wearied eye. 
The day spring is breaking 

Once more from on high. 

With lamps trimmed and burning. 

The Church on her way 
To meet thy returning. 

bright King of day ! 
Goes forth and rejoices. 

Exulting and free. 
And sends from all voices 

Hosannas to thee. 
•211 



212 HYMN FOR ADVENT. 

She casts off her sorrows, 

To rise and to shine 
With the lustre she borrows, 

O Saviour ! from thine. 
Look down, for thine honour, 

O Lord ! and increase 
In thy mercy upon her 

The blessing of peace. 

Her children with trembling 

Await, but not fear, 
Till the time of assembling 

Before thee draws near ; 
When, freed from all sadness, 

And sorrow, and pain, 
They shall meet thee in gladness 

And glory again. 




SlStt''-- LLLLiJ >fl 



Y ¥ V f f V 5&GB* 



CHRISTMAS. 

The glory of Lebanon, etc. — Isaiah. 

The thickly-woven boughs they wreathe 

Through every hallowed fane, 
A soft, reviving odour breathe 

Of summer's gentle reign ; 
And rich the ray of mild green light 

Which, like an emerald's glow, 
Comes struggling through the latticed height 

Upon the crowds below. 

O, let the streams of solemn thought, 

Which in those temples rise, 
From deeper sources spring than aught 

Dependent on the skies. 
Then, though the summer's glow departs, 

And winter's withering chill 
Rests on the cheerless woods, our hearts 

Shall be unchanging still. 

213 



Wsk 



??^ '^-^ -f.X. ^ z - r r r^ 'cS^^^X ^"^.^X cS^^x ~f?& t t«^ 



VIGIL OF THE CIRCUMCISION. 

THE DYING YEAR. 

Hark to thy last hour's passing knell, 

A startling sound to hear : 
Eternally we bid farewell 

To thee, departing year ! 
Go join the long-gone centuries, 

Thy sisters dim and gray ; 
For soon, with all thy power to please, 

Thou shalt be dim as they. 

'T is o'er — thy weight of weal and woe, 

And nearer lies the bourn 
To which though all life's travellers go, 

No travellers return. 
O, who can read thy doomsday roll 

Of days and hours misspent, 
Nor seek a refuge for his soul 

From their just punishment ? 

214 



T t r^ TT rr~rrr r r r r r r r^Y^r-r r r^f #§& 



THE EPIPHANY. 

And when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto 
him gifts; gold, and frankincense, and myrrh. — Gospel for the 
Day. 

We come not with a costly store, 

O Lord ! like them of old, 
The masters of the starry lore, 

Prom Ophir's shores of gold ; 
No weepings of the incense tree 

Are with the gifts we bring, 
Nor odorous myrrh of Araby 

Blends with our offering. 

But still our love would bring its best : 

A spirit keenly tried 
By fierce affliction's fiery test, 

And seven times purified. 
The fragrant graces of the mind, 

The virtues that delight 
To give their perfume out, will find 

Acceptance in thy sight. 

215 



FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. 

The merchandise of Ethiopia. — Lesson for the Day. 

Princes shall come from Egypt, and 

The path of life be trod 
By myriads, when the Morian's land 

Shall stretch her hand to God ; 
Then Cush, and Ophir, and the sea 

No idle gifts shall bring, 
But soul and body both shall be 

Their grateful offering. 



The Ethiop may not change his skin, 

Nor leopard change his spot ; 
But God can work a change within, 

Though man observeth not. 
A holier dawn shall chase the night, 

And darkness pass away, 
And these shall also walk in white, 

In Heaven's eternal day. 

216 



B^f^^l^^X^^X^^Xf^X^^Xf^X^-^. 




SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. 

This beginning of miracles did Jesus in Cana of Galilee, and 
manifested forth his glory, and his disciples believed on him. — 
Gospel for the Day. 

humblest and happiest bridal of earth ! 

O Cana of Galilee, blest 
With the sanction of Christ for thine innocent mirth, 

That first saw His glory confessed, — 
A glory enlivening the festival board, 

Increasing its generous store, 
And cheering the hearts that in wonder adored, 

Till the cup of their gladness ran o'er ! 

And who will unbless what the Saviour has blest ? 

What being of arrogant mould 
Will dare at the bridal where He is a guest, 

The cup of his favour withhold ? 
And why are thy bounties, O Master ! disdained, 

When thy smile so indulgent will be, 
If with conscience unwounded, and spirit unstained, 

They remind us of Cana and Thee ? 

217 



QUINQUAGESIMA SUNDAY. 

A certain blind man sat by the wayside. — Gospel for the Bay. 

Poor, and desolate, and blind, 

Like the wayside wanderer, we 
(Saviour ! by thy grace inclined) 

Fain would guide our steps to thee. 
'Mid the tumult of mankind, 

Still in love thou passest by ; 
Still let those who seek thee find ; 

Hear our never-ceasing cry. 

Darkly through our glass we see ; 

Shadows wrap our loveliest day : 
Lovelier will the vision be 

When the scales shall fall away. 
Saviour, though a tenfold night 

O'er the outward sense should roll, 
Brighter let thy cloudless light 

Shine forever in the soul. 

218 



/iJ^J^J^uyu;l;:v^J^;:u;u:u:u:u:u:u;u;v;u;l;;u:u:u:u:u;u;L ^ ;u^l^ 



LENT. 

Thou who. for forty clays and nights, o'erniastered 
all the might 

Of Satan, and the fiercest pangs of famished appe- 
tite, — 

Saviour ! leave us not alone to wrestle with 
our sin. 

But aid us in these holy hours of solemn disci- 
pline. 

Let not the tempter tempt us. Lord, beyond our 

strength to bear. 
Though, in the desert of our woe. he wildly shrieks, 

Despair ! 
Let not our humble confidence be in thy promise 

stirred. 
Xor clouds of dark distrust spring up between us 

and thy word. 

219 



220 LENT. 

Nor let us yet be lifted up, — by him, the prince 

of air, 
To scale presumption's dizzy height, and left to 

perish there ; 
Nor on the temple's pinnacle, in our self-righteous 

pride, 
Be set for thee to frown upon, and demons to deride. 

And O, when pleasure, power, and pomp around 

our vision swim, 
And, through the soft, enchanting mist, he bids us 

worship him, 
Assist us from the revelling sense the sorcerer's spell 

to break, 
And tread the arch apostate down, Redeemer ! for 

thy sake. 



HYMN 

FOE THE FIEST SUNDAY AFTEE EASTEE. 

Geeat Shepherd of our souls ! O, guide 
Thy wandering flock to feed 

In pastures green, and by the side 
Of stilly waters lead. 

Do thou our erring footsteps keep, 

Whose life was given for the sheep. 



O, let not us, who fain would cleave 
To thy communion, stray, 

Nor, tempted into ruin, leave 
The strait and narrow way : 

Before lis thou the path hast trod, 

And thou canst lead us, Son of God. 
221 



222 HYMN. 

O, let us hear thy warning voice, 

And see thy arm divine ; 
Thou know'st the people of thy choice, 

And thou art known of thine. 
Do thou our erring footsteps keep, 
Whose life was given for the sheep. 

Then when we pass the vale of death, 
Though more and more its shade 

Around our journey darkeneth, 
We will not be afraid, 

If thou art with us, and thy rod 

And staff console us, Son of God 




HYMN FOE WHITSUNDAY. 

Creator Spirit ! come and bless us ; 
Let thy love and fear possess us ; 
With thy graces meek and lowly 
Purify our spirits wholly. 
Paraclete, the name thou bearest, 
Gift of God the choicest, dearest, 
Love, and fire, and fountain living, 
Spiritual unction giving, 
Shower thy benedictions seven 
From thy majesty in heaven. 



Be the Saviour's word unbroken, 
Let thy many tongues be spoken ; 
In our sense thy light be glowing, 
Through our souls thy love be flowing ; 



223 



224 HYMN FOR WHITSUNDAY. 

Cause the carnal heart to perish, 
But the strength of virtue cherish, 
Till, each enemy repelling, 
And thy peace around us dwelling, 
We, beneath thy guidance glorious, 
Stand o'er every ill victorious. 




EEYEILLE. 



Up ! quit thy bower ; 't is the matin hour : 
The bell swings slow in the windowed tower. 

And prayer and psalm, in the soothing calm, 
Steal out, by turns, on the air of balm : 

And in solemn awe of a morn so still, 

E'en the small birds sins with a voice less shrill. 



Up, lady fair ! — 't is the hour of prayer, — 
And hie thee forth in the bracing air : 

Now bow the knee, while land and sea 
Eepose in their bright tranquillity ; 

And the sun as pure a lustre throws 

As the glorious dawn when he first arose. 



225 






SAINT THOMAS. 

When from their native Palestine 

The twelve spread far and wide, 
Alone he went from Salem's shrine 

On to the Ganges' side. 
The greensward was his dying bed, 

And from the crimson sod 
His blood, which Brahma's children sked, 

Went reeking up to God. 



On that foundation, long unsought, 

For eighteen hundred years, 
A Middleton and Heber wrought, 

And their successor rears. 
The Church for which his blood was spilt, 

How can it be o'er thrown, 
On Prophets and Apostles built, 

With Christ the Corner-stone ? 

226 



SAINT PAUL. 

The holy saints of old, 

On God's commission sent, 
Their high and heavenly station hold 

Above our measurement ; 
They shine, each unapproachable, 

A constellated star, 
And in their glorious beauty dwell, 

Companionless, afar. 



But let us not forget 

That we are kin to these, 
Men of like passions, and beset 

With like infirmities ; 
Nor will their spirits emulous 

Our brotherhood contemn ; 
As erst they have been one with us. 

We may be one with them. 

227 



228 



SAINT PAUL 



Still round our darkling road 

Their heavenly light they shed, 
And guide our feet to their abode, 

And show where we must tread. 
Then let the souls whom Christ sets free, 

Ere yet that light be dim, 
Be strong, O Paul, to follow thee, 

As thou hast followed Him. 







SAINT STEPHEN. 

With awful dread his murderers shook, 

As, radiant and serene, 
The lustre of his dying look 

Was like an angel's seen, 
Or Moses' face of paly light, 

When down the mount he trod, 
All glowing from the glorious sight 

And presence of his God. 



To us, with all his constancy, 

Be his rapt vision given, 
To look above by faith, and see 

Revealments bright from heaven, 
And power to speak our triumphs out 

As our last hour draws near, 
While neither clouds of fear nor doubt 

Before our view appear. 

•229 







HYMN FOR SAINT MATTHEW'S DAY. 

And as Jesus passed forth, he saw a man named Matthew sit- 
ting at the receipt of custom, and he saith unto him, Follow me ; 
and he arose and followed him. — Gospel for the Bay. 

By Babel's piles, how heavenly fair 

To see God's light dispel, 
With beams divine, the stifled air 

Of Mammon's gloomiest cell ! 
It cheers the soul that even there 

Our holy faith may dwell, 
And thrive amid the dreary glare 

Of this world's citadel. 



There still the Saviour makes his call, 
Drowned though the accents be ; 

O " Lord, make Matthews of us all," 
To rise and follow thee ; 

230 



HYMN FOR SAINT MATTHEW'S DAY. 281 

To leave whate'er we prize as gold ; 

Our treasure and our heart 
Transfer, where we may safe behold 

Earth and her idols part. 

Thus, as our feet through labyrinths glide. 

O, let thy voice sublime 
Be heard above the stunning tide 

Of human care and crime ; 
And as our busy task is plied 

By dusky lane and mart, 
Its unction ever there abide 

Like music in the heart. 











SAINT ANDREW'S DAY. 

O Saviour, for whose blessed sake 

Saint Andrew left his all, 
Beside the Galilean lake, 

As soon as Thou didst call ; 
Grant us, thy servants, later born, 

That grace which led thee first 
To bear the cross of shame and scorn, 

And to endure the worst. 

While skiff, and net, and hempen coil, 

The tackle and the oar, 
Remind us of their patient toil 

The fisher's part who bore, 
O, teach us what our work must be, 

Their fellowship to win 
Who follow them and follow thee, 

In holy discipline. 

232 



SAINT ANDREW'S DAY. 



233 



And let no follower come alone, 

But each his kindred bring, 
As Andrew did, to see and own 

One common Lord and King ; 
To count, like him, all gain but loss, 

To tread temptation down, 
And, through the triumph of the cross, 

Secure a glorious crown. 




CD ^"S*."?.' .% «% «'*» »*T o*.' .**V*.' <•% .*.' .*> ♦•>' .*. v*.' i*.' .*»' v*» '.*» ♦*«. .* »"..*» **»«?» •*?«<?'S? sft 









SUNDAY-SCHOOL HYMN. 

The sparrow finds a house, 

The little bird a nest ; 
Deep in thy dwelling, Lord, they come, 

And fold their young to rest. 
And shall ive be afraid 

Our little ones to bring 
Within thine ancient altar's shade, 

And underneath thy wing ? 

There guard them as thine eye, 

There keep them without spot, 
That when the spoiler passeth by 

Destruction touch them not. 
There nerve their souls with might, 

There nurse them with thy love 5 
There plume them for their final flight 

To blessedness above. 

234 



THE UPPER ROOM, 

IN WHICH A SUNDAY-SCHOOL WAS KEPT. 

Though steep and narrow is the way, 

And perilous each stair, 
How many little feet to-day 

Have safely clambered there ! 
And thus, whate'er life's trials be, 

Still upward may they press, 
Till with their angels they shall see 

God's face in righteousness. 



Here be faith's ladder fixed secure 

Whereon their souls may rise, 
And make, through Christ, their entrance sure 

To mansions in the skies. 
And on that day when last are first, 

And heaven's high gates draw near, 
O, be it theirs to hear the burst 



Of welcome, 



Come up here ! " 

235 



FLOWERS. 

" The lilies of the field, how they grow ! " — Sermon on the Mount. 

Thou, who hast taught us how to prize 

The truths which nature's fragrant maze, 
In glories of unnumbered dyes, 

To our enraptured sense conveys, 
Be with us in the festal hour, 

And, while the clouds of incense swim 
In homage from each chaliced flower, 

Accept, with these, our grateful hymn. 



Amid the city's stunning din 

Thy mute but radiant power we bless, 
That, through its dusty depths, pours in 

Such gleams of vernal loveliness ; 
That here thy odorous blooms impart, 

Above all art or man's device, 
A spell to soothe pale Labour's heart, 

As with the airs of paradise. 



•236 



FLOWERS. 237 

Nor let the influence rest, till all 

The dear delights in Eden nursed, 
Recovered from their primal fall, 

Like these, shine brightly as at first ; 
Till man himself, redeemed from stain, 

His heaven-taught work in Christ complete, 
And, through one greater Man, regain 

An entrance to the blissful seat. 




HYMN, 

FOR THE CHAPEL OF A LUNATIC HOSPITAL. 

The dearest room of all this pile, 

A pile to mercy dear, 
Lord, hallow with thy gladdening smile, 

And grant thy presence here. 
To Thee its walls we set apart, 

Who, in our flesh enshrined, 
Art pledged to heal the broken heart, 

And feel for human kind. 

Be here, our great perpetual Guest, 

O Saviour, night and day, 
To give the heavy-laden rest, 

And bear their griefs away. 
With that still voice that melts the soul 

In soothing prayer and psalm, 
The tumult of our thoughts control 

To thy divinest calm. 



HYMN. 239 

Here tune anew the jarring sense, 

Life's springs uncoiled rewind, 
And garnish for thy residence 

The mansions of the mind ; 
Ascend, O Son of God, thy throne, 

Bow reason to thy sway, 
Till in thy light we find our own, 

And darkness turned to day ! 









BAPTISMAL HYMN.' 

Let the infant soldier now 

With the hallowed cross be signed ; 
Bind the frontlet on his brow 

Time and death cannot unbind ! 
Words of earnest faith and prayer, 

Drops of consecrated dew, 
They can work a wonder there 

Earth's enchantments never knew. 

Happy mother ! sealed and blessed, 

To your arms your treasure take ; 
With the Saviour's mark impressed, 

Nurse it for the Saviour's sake. 
So the holy work begins, 

Ever doing, never done, 
Till, redeemed from all our sins, 

Heaven's eternal crown be won. 

a The reader should be apprised that this Hymn is not original 
in thought and sentiment, though the versification is the author's 
own. It may he considered as a paraphrase of two stanzas of 
Keble's " Holy Baptism." 

240 




" < _"v 




CHAEITY HYMN. 

" Freely ye have received, freely give." 

Thou who on earth didst sympathize 

With mortal care and fear, 
And all the frail and fleshly ties 

That man to man endear, 
The sorrower's prayer, the sufferer's sighs, 

Still reach Thy gracious ear. 

Though, pierced by many a pang below, 

The heart may sorely ache, 
Touched with a feeling of our woe, 

A bond no time can break, 
Thou wilt not leave us, Lord ! we know 

Thou never wilt forsake. 

P 241 



242 



CHARITY HYMN. 



Freely Thou givest, and thy word 

Is freely to impart ; 
And oft as from that law we 've erred 

With unfraternal heart, 
The deeper let us now be stirred 

To be even as Thou art. 




-=<?& 






ODE, 

FOR CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Glad tidings waft once more, 
Angels, who hymned of yore 

Messiah's birth ; 
Sing, voices of the sky, 
As in those times gone by, 
Glory to God on high, 

Peace on the earth ! 

O bright and burning star ! 
Be not from us afar, 

Distant nor dim ; 
Lead our frail feet aright, 
Silent, but shining light ; 
As on that hallowed night, 

Guide us to Him. 

243 



244 ODE. 

Give thou thy people grace, 
Saviour ! who seek thy face 

This favoured day. 
Incense and odours sweet 
May not thy coming greet, 
But hearts are at thy feet ; 

Turn not away. 

For in thy blessed shrine 
Each garland we intwine 

Incense shall breathe. 
As each before thee lies, 
Emblem of souls that rise 
Heavenwards, where never dies 

Thy fadeless wreath. 




>• >> <*' i>: ».*>'>> i>' >> >y >>-' >> V>>y >>>>>> >> i> >> i> >> >> >> >> >> >> >> >> 



ODE, 

FOR THE RE-OPENING OF CHRIST CHURCH, BOSTON, 

Awake. Arm divine ! Awake, 



Eye of the Only Wise ! 
For Zion and thy Temple's sake, 

Saviour and God. arise ! 
So shall our hour of gloom be o'er, 

And we, a happy throng, 
Wake in these hallowed aisles once more 

The breath of sacred song. 
To Thee we '11 lift our grateful voice, 

To Thee our offerings bring, 
And with a glowing heart rejoice 

To hail thee God and Kinor. 

God of our fathers ! still be ours ; 

Thy gates wide open set, 
And fortify the ancient towers 

Where thou with them hast met. 

245 



246 



ODE. 



Thy guardian fire, thy guiding cloud, 

Still let them gild our wall, 
Nor be our foes nor thine allowed 

To see us faint and fall. 
The worship of the glorious past 

Swell on from age to age, 
And be, while time itself shall last, 

Our children's heritage. 



Mi?ifu:u:ij:u?u:ifiM^^ 




SONG OF FAITH. 

The lilied fields behold ; 

What king in his array 
Of purple pall and cloth of gold 

Shines gorgeously as they ? 
Their pomp, however gay, 

Is brief, alas ! as bright ; 
It lives but for a summer's day, 

And withers in a night. 

If God so clothe the soil, 

And glorify the dust, 
Why should the slave of daily toil 

His providence distrust ? 
Will He, whose love has nursed 

The sparrow's brood, do less 
For those who seek his kingdom first, 

And with it righteousness ? 

247 



248 SONG OF FAITH. 

The birds fly forth at will ; 

They neither plough nor sow : 
Yet theirs the sheaves that crown the hill, 

Or glad the vale below. 
While through the realms of air 

He guides their trackless way, 
Will man, in faithlessness, despair ? 

Is he worth less than they ? 




PAEAPHEASE. 

" By their fruits ye shall know them." 

All grow not on one common stem, 

But separate and alone, 
And by its own peculiar fruit 

The good or ill is known. 
How blest are they whom grace inclines 

To bear the grafted good, 
So grateful to the longing taste, 

And delicate for food ! 



A plant set by the river-side, 

It spreadeth out its roots, 
And in due season bringeth forth 

Abundantly its fruits. 
Its thick and verdant boughs are like 

The goodly cedar-tree, 
Whose shadow covereth the hills, 

Whose branches reach the sea. 

249 



250 PARAPHRASE. 

But God shall dry up from beneath 

The wicked and unjust ; 
Their root shall be as- rottenness, 

Their blossoming as dust ; 
Their grapes are Sodom's grapes of gall, 

And bitter as their sin ; 
Their clusters, though all fair without, 

Are ashes all within. 

The good shall flourish as the branch 

Which God for strength hath made ; 
Its shady and refreshing leaves 

Shall never fall or fade ; 
But withered shall the godless be 

In premature decay, 
And with a fire unquenchable 

At last consume away. 





\>M--:.S.?. i . '.'" V 




THE MISSIONARY. 

O, say not that I am unkind 
To friends so warm and true ; 

I weep o'er all I leave behind, 
I sigh to bid adieu. 

But woe for my eternal lot, 

If my untiring love 
For Him who died for me, be not 

All other things above. 

Such is the law of Christ, and such 

The Saviour we adore, 
I could not love you all so much, 

Did I not love Him more. 

251 




SUNDAY-SCHOOL HYMN. 

Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forhid them not." 

Saviour ! thy precept is not hid, 

Nor is thy love forgot ; 
We come, whom thou didst not forbid, 

And man forbids us not ; 
To Thee we come, the Guide that brings 

The erring strays of sin 
Back from their early wanderings, 

Thy fold to enter in. 



To us thy heavenly grace impart, 

And let the words of truth 
Be inly grafted in our heart, 

And nurtured in our youth ; 
So shall its strong and thrifty shoots 

From year to year increase, 
And, with thy blessing, yield the fruits 

Of righteousness and peace. 

252 



A SUNDAY-SCHOOL HYMN. 253 

O, with the seed thy sowers sow 

That timely dew distil 
By which we may not only know. 

But love and do thy will. 
So shall its rooted strength defy 

The storms of life, and spring, 
With ever-lifted head, on high, 

In ceaseless blossoming. 

Though feeble is our strength and weak, 

Yet do not thou repress 
Their near approach who early seek 

Thy love and holiness. 
O, hear us, as with one accord 

Our grateful song we raise ; 
And out of children's mouths, O Lord, 

Again perfect thy praise. 




A PRAYER. 

When Thou, the vineyard's Visitant, 
To look on thy degenerate plant, 

Shalt hither take thy way, 
And find it green and flourishing, 
Curse not the unproductive thing, 

Nor to the dresser say, — 

" How long shall I, from year to year, 
Come seeking heavenly fruitage here, 

And none, alas ! be found V 
In vain it rears its leafy crown 
In barren pomp. Cut, cut it down : 

Why cumbereth it the ground ? " 



Lord, listen to my earnest prayer, 
And yet a little longer spare 

The blighting of thy frown. 
But let the gardener prune and dress, 
And diff around its barrenness , 

Before thou cut it down. 

254 



'iM^y y v'%t V y ww v y w's -Vwi w • y V y w v y v w * v w w y y w w w y y'.w y y -!« ^*J 




TRAVELLER'S HYMN. 

11 In journeyings often. n 

Lord ! go with us, and we go 

Safely through the weariest length, 
Travelling, if thou will'st it so, 

In the greatness of thy strength ; 
Through the day, and through the dark, 

O'er the land, and o'er the sea, 
Speed the wheel, and steer the bark, 

Bring us where we fain would be. 

In the self-controlling car, 

'Mid the engine's iron din, 
Waging elemental war, 

Flood without, and fire within, 
Through the day, and through the dark, 

O'er the land, and o'er the sea, 
Speed the wheel, and steer the bark, 

Bring us where we fain would be. 

255 






HYMN, 

FOR SISTERS OF MERCY. 

Lord, lead the way the Saviour went, 

By lane and cell obscure, 
And let love's treasures still be spent, 

Like His, upon the Poor ; 
Like Him through scenes of deep distress, 

Who bore the world's sad weight, 
We, in their crowded loneliness, 

Would seek the desolate. 

For Thou hast placed us side by side, 

In this wide world of ill, 
And that thy followers may be tried, 

The Poor are with us still. 
Mean are all offerings we can make, 

But Thou hast taught us, Lord, 
If given for the Saviour's sake, 

They lose not then- reward. 

266 






HYMNS OF THE ANCIENT TIME. 



" No man having drunk old wine, straightway desireth new ; for 
he saith, The old is better." 



HOROLOGY, OR DIAL OF PRAYER. 

Thou who hast put the times and seasons in thine own power : 
-Acts i. 7. 

Grant that we may pray unto thee in a fit and acceptable time. 
- Psalm lxix. 13. 



O Saviour ! I would spend the hours 

Canonical with Thee, 
As tolls the clock from yonder towers 

At nine, and twelve, and three ; 
At primes, and lauds, and matin-bell, 

And compline, rise and pray, 
And tell my blessed rosary 

At the decline of day. 

Q 257 



258 HYMNS OF THE ANCIENT TIME. 

At vespers, and at nocturns late, 

When suns have ceased to shine. 
On my devotion's dial-plate 

Still shed thy light divine ; 
And as the holy vigil yields 

In turn to holy dream, 
0, let my Saviour be through all 

My glory and my theme. 

I. 

MIDNIGHT HYMN. 

At midnight I will rise to give thanks unto thee. — King 
David. 

And at midnight Paul and Silas prayed, and sang praises 
unto God ; and the prisoners heard them. — Acts of the Holy 
Apostles. 

Thy praises, Lord, at midnight broke 
Through chambers where a monarch woke ; 
Thy midnight praise, with choral swell, 
Rang through the chained Apostles' cell ; 
Alike to thee each place was made, 
In palace or in prison laid ; 
The royal pomps, the grated door, 
The captive and the conqueror. 

So grant us, Lord, a song of power 
To charm away the midnight hour ; 



HYMNS OF THE ANCIENT TIME. 259 

In prosperous state be ours to sing 
In spirit with the Minstrel King ; 
And cheer us, when our hopes are dim, 
As with thy servants' dungeon hymn ; 
And when our watch, like theirs, is done, 
May worlds, without a night, be won. 

II. 

COCK-CKOAVIXG. 

And immediately, while he yet spake, the cock crew; and the 
Lord turned and looked upon Peter. And Peter remembered the 
word of the Lord, how he bad said unto him. Before the cock crow, 
thou shalt deny me thrice. And Peter went out and wept bit- 
terly.* 1 — Gospel. 

The Eye that softened as it smote, 

While crew the cock, with mighty spell, 

Far through the maddening crowd remote, 
Upon his shrinking servant fell ; 

a "It appears, from a passage of the Talmud, that domestic 
fowls were not tolerated in Jerusalem ; and admitting its author- 
ity to be indisputable, it will not be difficult to reconcile this fact 
with the record of the Evangelists. For as the palace of Caiaphas 
was at no great distance from the suburbs, the crowing of a cock 
without the walls might be clearly heard in the stillness of the 
evening. Unusual as it may have been, the scream of an eagle 
would not have more startled the ear of the apostate Apostle.'- — 
Middletox, Greek Article, p. 143. 



260 HYMNS OF THE ANCIENT TIME. 

Then woke the guilty shame within, 

And conscience, which so long had slept; 

And He alone who knew the sin 
Could know how bitterly he wept. 

If, Master, we thy cause betray, 

Oft as the cock repeats its call, 
Turn not thy piercing eye away 

Till we are conscious of our fall. 
Like Peter, let us weep alone 

In sorrow, secret as sincere, 
Till Thou, to whom our griefs are known, 

Shalt dry the penitential tear ! 

III. 

NOONDAY. 

Now Jacob's well was there : Jesus, therefore, being wearied 
with his journey, sat thus on the well, and it was about the sixth 
hour. a — Gospel. 

O Thou, who, in the languid noon, 
By Sychar's well didst open wide 

To wandering eyes a better boon 

Than e'er their fathers' fount supplied ; 



In the time of our Saviour, the day was divided into twelve 
hours, equal to each other, but unequal with respect to the differ- 
ent seasons of the year. The sixth, of course, was at all times an- 
swerable to noon. 



HYMNS OF THE ANCIENT TIME. 261 

Up, where thy brightest glories burn, 
Our fainting souls, at every stage, 

For thy celestial succour turn, 
In this, our weary pilgrimage ! 

When, from the sun's meridian glow, 

We seek refreshment and repose, 
Do Thou thv heavenly gifts bestow, 

And all the stores of life unclose ; 
Thence, quench the fervid spirit's thirst, 

Thence, fill us as with angel's food, 
Till, day by day, our souls are nursed 

For their divine beatitude. 



IV. 

ANOTHER FOR NOONDAY. 

Peter went up upon the house-top to pray, about the sixth 
hour ; and he became very hungry, and would have eaten ; bul 
while they made ready, he fell into a trance, and saw heaven 
opened and a certain vessel descending unto him, as it had been 
a great sheet, knit at the four corners, and let down to the earth. 
— Acts of the Apostles. 

Though on the house-top, Lord, unseen, 
How oft, at noon, I fain would rise, 

Where naught of earth could come between 
My lifted spirit and the skies ! 



262 HYMNS OF THE ANCIENT TIME. 

But short the conquest over sense ; 

On rapture's wing though high we soar, 
Too soon the fleshly influence 

Resumes its reign, and dreams are o'er. 

Yet still the Church, let down to earth, 

Without a trance, 't is ours to see, 
Where, cleansed from stain of mortal birth, 

In Jesus' blood we all may be. 
There may the soul its work complete, 

And with the hosts of men forgiven, 
Enveloped in that mighty sheet, 

Be safely taken up to Heaven. 



NINTH HOUR, THREE O'CLOCK P. M. 

TIME OF DAILY EVENING SERVICE. 

Now Peter and John went up together into the temple at the 
hour of prayer, being the ninth hour ; and a certain man, lame 
from his mother's womb, was carried, whom they laid daily at the 
gate of the temple which is called Beautiful, to ask alms of them 
that entered into the temple. — Acts of the Apostles. 

How dear to those on God who wait 
The paths which to his dwelling lead ! 

And every Christian temple gate, 
Is it not Beautiful indeed ? 



HYMNS OF THE ANCIENT TIME. 263 

For there our holiest joys unfold, 

And trains of lovelier graces fill 
These lowly courts, than when of old 

His sole abode was Zion's Hill. 

O, as thou enterest in, be sure 

To try the spirit of thy mind ; 
Ask if its love to God be pure, 

And true its love to humankind. 
Bring Faith, and Hope ; and be Thou nigh, 

The best and greatest of the three, 
Binding in one delightful tie 

All heaven and earth, sweet Charity ! 



VI. 



EVENTIDE. 

" And Isaac went out to meditate in the field at the eventide ; 
and he lifted up his eyes, and saw, and behold, the camels were 
coming." 

Beneath the shade of pensive eve, 

By Heaven impelled, the patriarch's mind 

Could wander from itself, and leave 
The grovelling cares of life behind. 

Led by the same almighty love, 
When all below is dark and dull, 



264 HFMNS OF THE ANCIENT TIME. 

We still may rise to scenes above, 
Where all is bright and beautiful. 

Our souls may go as Isaac went, 
And find, each eve, a lovelier field 

Than e'en the gorgeous Orient 

To his enraptured sense could yield. 

And while, in meditation sweet, 

We seem to breathe a heavenlier air, 

All that we most desire to meet 

Shall bless our longing vision there. 




NOTES 




NOTES. 



The Sonnets. 

These were chiefly the product of the author's pen in 
1827-8, while he was editing The Watchman. It is not 
thought necessary to preserve the dates of their several 
appearances, except where the verse requires the aid of 
such information for its full comprehension. In the Son- 
nets and other poems, quotations from other poets are 
often indicated by italics, as preferable, in such cases, to 
the ordinary marks. For minute information with respect 
to the poet and his works the reader is referred to the 
" Memoir of the late Kev. Wm. Croswell, D. D., by his 
Father," published by the Appletons, Xew York, 1853. 



The Fifth Sonnet. — Page 7. 

The warm missionary and philanthropic spirit of the 
author is beautifully exhibited in this Sonnet, in which 
the ordination of the Rev. Jacob Oson, a coloured man, 
as the first missionary to Liberia, is celebrated. It was 
written in 1827. See the twenty-ninth Sonnet. 

267 



268 NOTES. 

The Sixth Sonnet. — Page 8. 

The labors of the Rev. Mr. Breck, and others, among the 
Indians of Wisconsin, seem to be here anticipated, by the 
fervent spirit of Croswell. 

The Ninth Sonnet. — Page 11. 

This Sonnet was suggested by Dunlap's picture, which 
at the time attracted considerable attention. This paint- 
ing lacks originality, but is a composition of some merit. 

The Twelfth Sonnet, -j- Page 14. 

This Sonnet was originally published as an imitation 
of the antique, and in the old orthography. This is 
a natural resource sometimes in setting forth thoughts 
quaintly conceived, and to which the ancient spelling 
seems to add something, by suggesting the epoch in the 
spirit of which the author writes ; but as it is generally 
felt to be a blemish, or an affectation, and nothing is 
sacrificed in consequence, the modern spelling is here 
restored. 

The Twenty-fourth Sonnet. — Page 26. 
Addressed to Mrs. Sigourney, as see the Memoir. 

The Twenty-fifth Sonnet. — Page 27. 

This was the first of the Sonnets, and it appeared in the 
first number of The Watchman, March 26, 1827. 

The Twenty-seventh Sonnet. — Page 29. 

The Rev. Henry J. Feltus, D. D., Rector of St. Ste- 
phens, New York, was the subject of these beautiful 
verses. He died, aged 53, in 1828. 



NOTES. 269 

The Twenty-eighth Sonnet. — Page 30. 

The lamented Governor of Liberia, J. Ashmun, Esq., 
died at New Haven, August 25, 1828. The Sonnet relates 
a real incident; his mother having reached New Haven 
ignorant of his decease, entered the church, as here de- 
scribed, during the funeral services. 

The Twenty-ninth Sonnet. — Page 31. 

The Rev. Jacob Oson (of whom see the Fifth Sonnet) 
sickened and died before he could embark for Liberia, 
to which port he was the first missionary ordained and 
commissioned. His dying prayers that God would raise 
up other labourers for the land of his forefathers have 
been answered, by God's goodness, and who shall say 
that he was ordained in vain ? 

The Thirtieth Sonnet. — Page 32. 

Bishop Doane was consecrated to the Episcopate of 
New Jersey, in St. Paul's Chapel, New York, October 31, 
1832. On this occasion Croswell was very near his friend, 
and, all unconsciously, the editor of these poems was at 
the side of Croswell; for the crowd being immense, and 
pressing upon the chancel, the writer, then a boy of four- 
teen, was pushed so far forward as to be close to the ven- 
erable Bishop White, when he, with the assisting prelates, 
laid hands on the four who received the Episcopate that 
day. 

The Thirty-third Sonnet. — Page 35. 

This Sonnet has all the beauty of a mosaic, and every- 
body will at once recognize one of the little cherubs 
in the Sistine Madonna, now in the gallery at Dresden. 



270 NOTES. 

The Thirty-fourth Sonnet. — Page 36. 
The death of the Rev. Abiel Carter, Rector of Christ 
Church, Savannah, seems to have suggested this Sonnet; 
so prophetical of the poet's own demise. 

The Robin's Nest. — Page 45. 

This little poem was written at Auburn, and the author 
gives this account of it : "A pair of robins have made 
our mornings lively all this Spring with their cheerful 
notes. A few days since the female was missing (our cat 
probably best knows how) and it has been perfectly dis- 
tressing to hear the perpetual lament of the survivor." 
His letters and poems written at Auburn generally betray 
a pensive, though never a repining spirit, and it cannot 
be doubted that his residence in that place was a sort of 
exile, which he felt severely, though he made the best of 
it, as he did of everything. 

A Night Thought. — Page 47. 

An example of the poet's readiness to cast into a novel 
and original form something read elsewhere. This is a 
mere rhyming (and condensation) of Young's apostrophe. 

Greece. — Page 48. 

This poem seems to have reference to the founding of 
the Mission at Athens, under the Rev. J. H. Hill, D. D., 
who, for thirty years, has been doing a work for Greece 
which, by the blessing of God, will in the end regenerate 
that ancient seat of poetry and heroism. What Wiclif 
did for England, when he translated the Scriptures, has 
been virtually done for Greece by this patient and faith- 
ful missionary. Its Ridleys and Latimers will come here- 
after. 



NOTES. 271 

The Synagogue. — Page 51. 

This was written January 2, 1832, and seldom has an 
American poet produced anything of the lighter kind 
which can equal it for the undoubted tokens of poetical 
inspiration and the power of poetical expression. How 
many have gone, with curious eyes, into the Jewish Syn- 
agogues of our cities ; but how few have been able to in- 
vest the scene with such Oriental beauty, and to derive 
from it such deep impressions of Divine Truth, and of the 
Evangelical blessings yet in store for Israel ! 

Africa. — Page 59. 

This poem is another evidence of the great heart for 
missionaiy enterprise which the author had in him, long 
before others were awakened to a spirit for missions, — 
which is the spirit of all that is good, including civiliza- 
tion and letters. It was written in 1828. 

South-Sea Missionaries. — Page 61. 
This also was written in 1828. It proves how deeply 
he could sympathize in the good done by others, for it 
celebrates a mission undertaken and carried out to glori- 
ous ends by our Christian brethren of the Congregational 
Board. Doubtless it would have rejoiced the heart of 
Dr. Croswell had he foreseen the action of our own Board 
of Missions, at Xew Haven, in October, 1860, establishing 
a mission in the Sandwich Islands, which we may believe 
is destined to teach the Islanders " the way of God more 
perfectly." and to cany on the work among the myriad 
isles of the South Pacific. 

The Meeting of the Tribes. — Page 64. 
This is supposed to celebrate the opening of the Geii- 



272 NOTES. 

eral Convention of the American Church, in Philadelphia, 
October, 1835. It is framed in the spirit of " an Israelite 
indeed," the idioms of Palestine being accommodated to 
America. " The Lion of Judah" is supposed to refer to 
Bishop Doane, and nobody can fail to perceive Bishop 
White in " the aged High-Priest." There is a reference, 
too, to the work of Western Missions undertaken at this 
convention, by the appointment of a Missionary Bishop, 
now the venerable Bishop of Wisconsin. 

The application to modern dignitaries of Hebrew epi- 
thets, now almost wholly restricted to the Redeemer, is 
infelicitous; but is involved in the very nature of the 
conception, if it be resolved to carry out into details the 
analogies between the modern and the ancient Israel 
of God. 

The Missionary's Farewell. — Page 66. 

It is presumed by the author's father that these verses 
may be those presented to Bishop Boone, on the occasion 
of his sailing for China (as a presbyter) in 1837. 

The Ordinal. — Page 69. 

This poem contains the poet's recollections of his own 
ordination to the deaconate, in Trinity Church, New Ha- 
ven, St. Paul's Day, 1828, by Bishop Brownell. The 
monument of Bishop Jarvis, near the chancel, is referred 
to in the fourth stanza. 

Recollections of St. Paul's Day. — Page 72. 

In Christ Church, Boston, in holy meditation on the 
event celebrated in the verses on "the Ordinal," the au- 
thor produced this poem. In a letter to his father, he 
says of the expected anniversary : " Next Sunday, St. 



NOTES. 273 

Paul's Day, is the anniversary of my being set apart to 
the ministry, six years ago ; an interval that seems like a 

dream, but full of the momentous items upon 

which stands our account for eternity Let me 

have the benefit of your especial prayer on the noon of 
that day, and let our spirits meet before the throne of 
grace." 

Christ Church. — Pages 74, 77. 

In these poems the author enumerates some of those 
things which were the charms of his appointed place, and 
to which his references are frequent in his poetry. In 
particular he loved it for its fidelity to the truth, during a 
long century which had seen the Calvinistic congrega- 
tions of Boston declining into the secondary and tertiary 
stages of Puritanism, and denying the Atonement and the 
Trinity. The power to maintain an unchanging faith 
from age to age he regarded as given only to the Apostolic 
Church, though no one more cheerfully than he recog- 
nized and loved the Christian graces of thousands of in- 
dividuals who belong to other communions. 

Long after his connection with this old church had 
ceased, he took me to see it. As we stood together in its 
solemn aisles he narrated to me many anecdotes of its 
past, and incidentally owned, that, while he was rector, he 
often passed hours of the night within its walls, in prayer 
for himself and others, and in sacred meditation. He then 
asked me to go out and look at the spire from the neigh- 
bouring churchyard, and while I did so the bells began to 
play a favourite psalm-tune. Returning, I found him han- 
dling the keys, with the musical score before him, which 
he had copied and brought with him from home in order 
to give me this surprise. The almost childlike delight he 
R 



274 NOTES. 

seemed to take in thus awakening the old bells, gave him 
a beauty, as he stood playing, which I cannot soon forget. 
He then climbed with me to see the bells, and to take the 
surrounding view from the tower. 

Christmas Evening Pastoral. — Page 79. 
A lively description of the scene in Christ Church, 
when it is decorated for the feast of Christmas! The 
" angelic row " over the organ-loft (here poetically changed 
into the rood-loft), will be remembered by those who have 
visited the church as quite an important part of the old 
fabric. The little figures are set round the organ (with 
red cheeks, and not very ethereal features), blowing and 
chanting with all their might. 

St. John Baptist's Day. — Page 83. 

These verses were written in the vestry of Christ 
Church (on the anniversary of his Institution) in the 
solemn prospect of retirement from that beloved charge. 
The allusions throughout may be better understood by 
referring to the " Office of Institution," in the Prayer- 
book. 

Dr. Cros well's sensitive feelings had been deeply 
wounded by occurrences in the parish, and he had re- 
signed the rectorship, in the truly primitive resolve rather 
to suffer wrong than to avenge himself. He felt it to be 
the privilege of a Christian priest to forgive what the 
world would resent. 

From the Antique. — Page 86. 

In this poem we have an instance of Cros well's fond- 
ness for that peculiar face which the old orthography 
puts on a poetical production. It is a beautiful rebus of 



NOTES. 275 

his family name, with, which he amused himself by send- 
ing it to his father (as if it were taken from some old 
black-letter volume) with the inquiry, — "By what art 
do you think I have recovered it? " 

To my Father. — Page 88. 

To the old friends of Dr. Croswell, the Senior, these 
verses will supply the place of a portrait. He was one 
of the noblest looking old men that the editor remembers 
to have seen, — erect, of commanding height, of dignified 
address, with a patriarchal sweetness of expression which 
would have made him a man of mark among thousands 
of his brethren. 

Epithalamium. — Page 92. 

Written in anticipation of his own marriage. He was 
married to Amanda, daughter of Silas P. Tarbell, Esq., 
October 1, 1840. The second stanza is an acknowledged 
versification of Jeremy Taylor's beautiful peroration in 
his sermon on u The Marriage Ring." 

Loneliness. — Page 99. 

One is often lonely in a crowd ; and it is worthy of note 
that this tribute to a romantic and holy friendship was 
written on the noisy anniversary, July 4, 1833. He broke 
away from some of its festive scenes, and produced it in 
his retirement. 

Stanzas. — Page 104. 
The death of Col. Putnam, of Brooklyn, in Connecti- 
cut, in 1831, inspired these stanzas. He was a son of 
Gen. Putnam of Revolutionary memory; and his daugh- 
ters, Mrs. Grosvenor and Mrs. Sumner, of Hartford, were 



276 NOTES. 

always among the poet's most cherished friends and cor- 
respondents. It is almost needless to say that among the 
ladies mentioned in the Memoir, as adding to the attrac- 
tions of Hartford, in 1827 - 8, these sisters were con- 
spicuous. 

In Memory of D. W. — Page 106. 

Daniel Whiting, one of the poet's classmates, died in 
1832. He seems to have loved him dearly. The words 
in italics are quoted from the Prayer-book, and by the 
play on the word haven, New Haven is indicated as the 
fair city which he so extols. 

To my Namesake. — Page 108. 

The Rev. William Croswell Doane, now Eector of St. 
Mary's, Burlington, in New Jersey. The stanzas are 
dated, Boston, Whitsun-Tuesday, June 12, 1832. The 
editor well remembers the mingling of paternal pride 
and delighted friendship with which Bishop Doane read 
them to him, when he was visiting the Bishop, at River- 
side, several years afterwards. 

To a Friend. — Page 110. 

Addressed to Joseph P. Couthoy, Esq., embarking for 
the Mediterranean, in 1833. 

To my Godson. — Page 111. 

Addressed to W. C. D. aged three years, March 2, 1834. 
The beautiful lines of W. C. D. in response, dated July 
31, 1851, may be seen in Dr. Croswell's Memoir, by his 
father, p. 137. 

Lament. — Page 113. 

The Rev. Dr. Montgomery, Rector of St. Stephen's, 



NOTES. 277 

Philadelphia, died March 16, 1834. The poet says of these 
verses: " They seemed to arrange themselves almost spon- 
taneously, and have received little or no correction." 

To the Rev. Dr. Coit. — Page 115. 

These stanzas are dated March 1, 1835. Dr. Croswell 
adopts the reading " thirsty arms," now generally dis- 
carded for thirty. The river Trent is said to receive its 
name from its thirty branches. Warton says there were 
said to be also thirty religious houses along its banks, and 
as many varieties of fish in its waters. 

Elegiac. — Page 117. 

The Rev. Benjamin Davis Winslow, a young divine and 
poet of high promise, died at Burlington, in November, 
1839. See Croswell's Memoir, p. 231. His poems should 
be collected and published. 

Bishop White. — Page 119. 

These stanzas seem to commemorate the scene in St. 
Paul's Chapel, New York, when the four bishops were 
consecrated, Oct. 31, 1832. See above, note on the Thir- 
tieth Sonnet. 

Bishop Griswold. — Page 121. 
This tribute to Bishop Griswold, followed by another to 
Bishop Hobart, reminds the editor that these two prelates 
were consecrated to the Episcopate, kneeling side by side, 
in 1811. How unconsciously Croswell paints his own por- 
trait in the tributes he offers to departed friends ! How 
large his heart, and how superior to party; appreciating 
alike Bishop Griswold and Bishop Hobart, different as 



278 NOTES. 

they were, and claimed though, they are by different 
schools in the Church. 

Linp:s. — Page 124. 

The Rectory and Church of St. Peter's, Auburn, are 
here accurately described. That justly distinguished 
prelate, Bishop Hobart, died there, while on a visitation of 
his diocese, September 12, 1830. These stanzas, beauti- 
fully engrossed and illuminated, and handsomely framed, 
were hanging on the wall of the parsonage a few years 
ago, when I visited it, in the drawing-room of the worthy 
clergyman who had succeeded to the rectorship. 

Memorial. — Page 127. 

This memorial was written in the Rectory of St. Peter's, 
Auburn, August 27, 1840. I well remember the Rev. 
William Lucas, whom it celebrates, as a man of pleasing 
manners, and a clergyman of pure and consistent char- 
acter. 

Ad Amicum. — Page 128. 

Addressed to the poet's schoolfellow and friend of 
youth, Henry Edward Peck, Esq., (March 12, 1846,) on 
hearing of his affliction in the loss of his eldest son. 
Croswell had officiated as groomsman at Mr. Peck's mar- 
riage. 

Stanzas. — Page 131. 

These stanzas (the last written in the Rectory at 
Auburn) were occasioned by the death of the Rev.E. G. 
Prescott, which occurred at sea, April 11, 1844. In a 
letter, the poet thus expresses himself: " Prescott's death 
shocked me greatly. We were intimate and nearly of 
the same age; and I have some similar warnings to remind 
me that the house of my tabernacle is not too strong to be 
dissolved." 



NOTES. 279 

To a Child. — Page 135. 

The " little musical prodigy " to whom these lines were 
addressed is more fully spoken of in Dr. Croswell's " Me- 
moir," p. 99; where may be found a very characteristic 
letter, richly illustrative of the poet's happy way of deal- 
ing with children. 

Home. — Page 141. 

This is one of the author's earliest productions. The 
two following poems are also of a domestic character, and 
one of them, if not both, belong to his Juvenilia. 

New Year Thoughts. — Page 148. 

From " the first rough draft, among loose manuscripts, 
without any date," first published by Dr. Croswell, Se- 
nior, in " The Memoir." The "New Year's Thoughts," 
on p. 152, were a contribution to the columns of a friend's 
newspaper, January 1, 1842. 

Valentine. — Page 157. 

For the playful history of what the poet calls his " Silly 
Valentines," the reader who takes an interest in such 
literature is referred to the "Memoir" by Dr. Croswell, 
Senior, pp. 161, 162, etc. 

The Chapel-Bell. — Page 161. 

The last stanza in this sportive little college satire is 
credited by the author as follows : — 

" Itburiel's whisper in the breakfast bell." — JV. P. Willis. 
But query this word ivhisper 1 The poem is dated Feb- 
ruary, 1820, " and the author pretends to ascribe it to 
' Mister Peter Pattieson, a late lamented classmate,' add- 
ing, ' The Rowley papers are not more genuine.' " 



280 JVOTES. 

An Apology. — Page 165. 

A projecting rock in the hills, near Greenfield, in Mas- 
sachusetts, is known as 4 'the poet's seat," and a little 
hollow in said rock is called " the poet's inkstand." 
Visiting this rock, in 1849, with some of his friends, the 
ladies of the party enthroned the poet accordingly, and 
called on him for an effusion of verse. This Apology is 
the result; but the rock should ever, hereafter, be sacred 
to the memory of Croswell. 

Architectural. — Page 166. 

In this, and other satirical verses, if the author seems 
to be severe on others, it must be borne in mind, that in 
" the Convocation Poem " he is far more so on the incon- 
sistencies of his own co-religionists. In neither instance 
is "aught set down in malice;" but material for sober 
reflection is supplied in both, albeit under a sportive 
mask. 

The Old North Cock. — Page 170. 

Of this/ew d 1 esprit Dr. Croswell, Senior, says, " It refers 
to the weathercock on the spire of the place of worship 
at the North End, in Boston, then occupied by a Unita- 
rian society." Apparently, it was one of the many, in 
that city, which have " met with a change " from Calvin- 
ism to the views of Priestley and others. 

New Haven. — Page 172. 

This is the mere fragment of a college satire, in which 
there is, nevertheless, much beauty. It is a picture of 
the " City of Elms," and of Yale College, which cannot 
be read without pleasure by any one who has visited it. 



NOTES. 281 

Trinity Church — of which the author's father was rector 
— is very felicitously introduced; as also is the allusion 
to its materia], in contrast with the brick and timber 
meeting-houses of New-England, where stone churches, 
as well as pointed windows, were for a long time iden- 
tified with " Episcopacy." 

The editor cannot but direct attention to the poetic 
license in the last stanza, in which New Haven is cele- 
brated as the native place of the author. In a classic 
poet, how many theories such a liberty would have sug- 
gested to critics anxious to reconcile it with known 
facts ! 

Lake Owasco. — Page 176. 

This beautiful lake, near Auburn, is gracefully celebrated 
in these stanzas, — first for its natural charms, and then 
for the dignity it was supposed to derive from the residence 
on its banks of several eminent public men. But in the 
third stanza the poet pays a warmer tribute to a young 
gentleman, Mr. Myers, a parishioner of St. Peter3, and the 
Superintendent of its Sunday School, who had wrought 
up into a creditable poem the Indian legend " Ensenore," 
which he associates with the lake. 

The editor cannot forbear to say that this lake was the 
scene of some of the most cheerful of his own sports in 
early youth, and that these stanzas are peculiarly pleasing 
to him by the pleasant images they recall of bygone 
days. 

Albany. — Page 178. 
Lord Byron speaks of " Albany, near Washington," evi- 
dently mistaking some reference to its Capitol, or State- 
House. Lest anybody should not know that Albany is 



282 NOTES. 

the capital of the State of New York, it may be proper to 
say that the allusions of the poem are only intelligible to 
those who understand that fact, and the local traditions 
and histories therewith connected. 

Psalms. — Page 202. 

These specimens of a projected Metrical Version of the 
Psalter are dated " St. Peter's Parsonage, Auburn, 1840." 

Vigil of the Circumcision. — Page 214. 

Written apparently in 1828, when it appeared in The 
Watchman. 

Hymn for Whitsunday. — Page 223. 
From the Latin of St. Ambrose. 

Flowers. — Page 236. 

Written for " the dedication of the Hall of the Massa- 
chusetts Horticultural Society," in 1845. 

Traveller's Hymn. — Page 255. 

This beautiful hymn (incorrectly printed in Dr. Cros- 
well's volume) was first published in 1833. Something 
like it occurs in the poet's letter to his father, after his 
voyage on the Long Island Sound, in 1826, when steamers 
were a novelty. " I felt grateful to Him who is the Pre- 
server, as well as the Maker of men," he says, " for the 
tremendous and incessant rumble of the engine made me 
aware of my own insignificance, and of the awful agency 
within whose reach I lay. I could hear the waves gush 
and gurgle against the side of the boat." 

These early impressions may have had their effect in 
producing the hymn, but the editor is under the impres- 



NOTES. 283 

sion that it was written on the journey from Boston to 
New York, when the poet was going to attend the conse- 
cration of his friend Dr. Doane. The late Bishop Wain- 
wright greatly admired this hynm, and marvelled at the 
facility with which, it was produced, — for, unless the 
editor is mistaken, he was with the poet at the time. In 
1850 the editor travelled with Croswell, and while they 
were together in Washington, obtained from him a copy 
of these verses in his own handwriting. At the same 
time he learned the history of its composition. In the 
following year, during two Atlantic voyages, he derived 
great pleasure from often repeating it to himself, amid 
the noise of the machinery and the tumult of the storm. 

Hymn. — Page 256. 

This was written in 1831, for the Howard Benevolent 
Society of Boston. The editor has ventured to give it a 
name suited to the present state of the Church, in which 
deaconesses and Sisters of Mercy are among other realiza- 
tions of the poet's ardent hopes. Perhaps we owe them 
to his faithful prayers. 

Horology. — Page 257. 

This series of hymns was begun in 1834; a very im- 
portant fact to those who would form a correct estimate 
of Dr. CrosweLTs character as a divine. Long before the 
' ; Oxford Movement " was known or heard of in America, 
his mind had received its cast from the old doctors of 
Anglican Theology, and it was never changed. 
The lines. 

'• And tell my blessed rosary, 
At the decline of day," 

might justly give offence to any one who should not per- 



284 



NOTES. 



ceive that the word rosary is here used by a poetical 
license only, or as contrasting a blessed system of prayer 
with a superstitious one. Since these hymns were writ- 
ten, the reactionary follies of certain perverts have made 
such words less tolerable ; but nobody could have dreamed 
in 1834 that any rational being would ever betake himself 
to beads and aves ! It is curious to observe in The Lay 
of the Last Minstrel that Sir Walter Scott uses architec- 
tural terms merely for their beauty, as the word " rosary " 
is introduced here. He little dreamed of the revival of 
Art which has made ridiculous, for glaring inaccuracy, 
terms which, when he wrote, were simply sounding dec- 
orations of his verse. Sir Walter created a taste for 
architectural study which has made his comparative 
knowledge look very much like ignorance. 




Cambridge : Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 




